When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.
Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.
Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.
And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.
Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, some times disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And alway the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.
After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.
So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.
Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.
Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross for ever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked.
Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.
But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of the drug and the dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space. So, happier than I had ever dared hope to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy
day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had
received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had
scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in
his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a
thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional
glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,"
said he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"
"Strange--remarkable," I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
"There is surely something more than that," said he; "some
underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you
cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you
have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how
often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of
that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque
enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at
robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the
five orange pips, which let straight to a murderous conspiracy.
The word puts me on the alert."
"Have you it there?" I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
"Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
consult you?
"Scott Eccles,
"Post Office, Charing Cross."
"Man or woman?" I asked.
"Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid
telegram. She would have come."
"Will you see him?"
"My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked
up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing
itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for
which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile;
audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the
criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look
into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here,
unless I am mistaken, is our client."
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy
features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed
spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces
in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his
flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.
"I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr.
Holmes," said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a
situation. It is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist
upon some explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing
voice. "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at
all?"
"Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit
that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a
class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less,
having heard your name--"
"Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at
once?"
Holmes glanced at his watch.
"It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was
dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and
attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment
of your waking."
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
chin.
"You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet.
I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been
running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to
the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent
was paid up all right and that everything was in order at
Wisteria Lodge."
"Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my
friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories
wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me
know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which
have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and
waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance."
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own
unconventional appearance.
"I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware
that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But
will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so
you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse
me."
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle
outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust
and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to
us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant,
and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands
with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of
the Surrey Constabulary.
"We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are
you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"
"I am."
"We have been following you about all the morning."
"You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes.
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
Post-Office and came on here."
"But why do you follow me? What do you want?"
"We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which
let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of
Wisteria Lodge, near Esher."
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
struck from his astonished face.
"Dead? Did you say he was dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"But how? An accident?"
"Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."
"Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I
am suspected?"
"A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we
know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."
"So I did."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
Out came the official notebook.
"Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is
a plain statement, is it not?"
"And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
against him."
"Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the
room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm.
Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to
your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly
as you would have done had you never been interrupted."
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned
to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook,
he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.
"I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I
cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family
of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion,
Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a
young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish
descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke
perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking
a man as ever I saw in my life.
"In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow
and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and
within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One
thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to
spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and
Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this
engagement.
"He had described his household to me before I went there. He
lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who
looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and
did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook,
he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who
could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked
what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and
that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer
than I thought.
"I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of
Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the
road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen
shrubs. It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of
disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in
front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as
to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He
opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great
show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a
melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his
hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner
was tete-a-tete, and though my host did his best to be
entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him.
He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his
nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner
itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy
presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I
can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back
to Lee.
"One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon
the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought
nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was
handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read
it he seemed even more distrait and strange than before. He gave
up all pretence at conversation and sat, smoking endless
cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to
the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time
later Garcia looked in at my door--the room was dark at the time-
-and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He
apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was
nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly
all night.
"And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it
was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was
nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so
I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up
and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again
and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion
that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and
hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot
water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was
no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then
I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me
which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door.
No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook,
all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to
Wisteria Lodge."
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added
this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
"Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said
he. "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"
"I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of
some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall
door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I
called at Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village,
and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been
rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be
for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main objet
must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-
day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was
obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been
paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the
Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went
to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I
found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since
I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult
cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said
when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and
that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure you that every word
I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told
you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My
only desire is to help the law in every possible way."
"I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said
Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say
that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the
facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was
that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe
what became of it?"
"Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."
"What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a
slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from
his pocket.
"It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked
this out unburned from the back of it."
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
"You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
pellet of paper."
"I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"
The Londoner nodded.
"The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two
snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over
three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and
pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr.
Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
"Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
"It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It
is thicker and bolder, as you see."
"A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added.
The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of
such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as
the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve
in each."
The country detective chuckled.
"I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see
there was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make
nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and
that a woman, as usual was at the bottom of it."
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this
conversation.
"I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,"
said he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what
has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his
household."
"As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was
found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from
his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a
sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than
wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a
quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck
down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him
long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There
are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals."
"Robbed?"
"No, there was no attempt at robbery."
"This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on
me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal
excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed
up with the case?"
"Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only
document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from
you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death.
It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's
name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached
his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I
wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined
Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and
here we are."
"I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
into an official shape. You will come round with us to the
station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in
writing."
"Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at
the truth."
My friend turned to the country inspector.
"I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with
you, Mr. Baynes?"
"Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."
"You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that
you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact
hour that the man met his death?"
"He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that
time, and his death had certainly been before the rain."
"But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
"His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he
who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."
"Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.
"You have a clue?" asked Gregson.
"On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A
further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to
give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did
you find anything remarkable besides this note in your
examination of the house?"
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
"There were," said he, "one or two VERY remarkable things.
Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care
to come out and give me your opinion of them."
In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing
the bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and
kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-
shilling reply."
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.
Holmes smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen
eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic
of the man.
"Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you
make of it?"
"I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."
"But the crime?"
"Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I
should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and
had fled from justice."
"That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it
you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two
servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should
have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had
him alone at their mercy every other night in the week."
"Then why did they fly?"
"Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big
fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles.
Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity
to furnish an explanation which would cover both of these big
facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious
note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be
worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts
which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme,
then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution."
"But what is our hypothesis?"
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
"You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed,
and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some
connection with them."
"But what possible connection?"
"Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it,
something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship
between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former
who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of
London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in
close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what
did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no
charm in the man. He is not particulary intelligent--not a man
likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he
picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as
particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional
British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress
another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors
dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was."
"But what was he to witness?"
"Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone
another way. That is how I read the matter."
"I see, he might have proved an alibi."
"Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria
Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it
may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some
juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have
got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case
it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him
that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia
could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned
he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was
this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law
that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an
insurance against the worst."
"Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
others?"
"I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in
front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them
round to fit your theories."
"And the message?"
"How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds
like racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a
signal. 'Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green
baize.' This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband
at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She
would not have said 'Godspeed' had it not been so. 'D'--that
should be a guide."
"The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores,
a common female name in Spain."
"Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard
would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is
certainly English. Well, we can only possess our soul in
patience until this excellent inspector come back for us.
Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a
few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness."
An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey
officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it
in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He
tossed it across with a laugh.
"We are moving in exalted circles," said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers;
Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams,
Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone,
Nether Walsling.
"This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has
already adopted some similar plan."
"I don't quite understand."
"Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion
that the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment
or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct,
and in order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and
seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that
the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this
house cannot be more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since
Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my
reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to
avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one
o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be
limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here
they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein
must lie among them."
It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found
comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the
company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was
a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain
beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over
which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.
2. The Tiger of San Pedro
A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a
high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts.
The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-
black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon
the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
"There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at
the window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with
his hand on the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man
spring up from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry
from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-
breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in
his trembling hand.
"What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a
long sigh of relief.
"I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
don't think my nerve is as good as it was."
"Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve
in your body."
"Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in
the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had
come again."
"That what had come again?"
"The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."
"What was at the window, and when?"
"It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I
was sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look
up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane.
Lord, sir, what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."
"Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."
"I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour
that I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of
milk in it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours,
sir. And the look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the
line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I
couldn't move a finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away
and was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but thank God
there was no one there."
"If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a
black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a
constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay
his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision
and a touch of nerves?"
"That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting
his little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short
examination of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should
say. If he was all on the same scale as his foot he must
certainly have been a giant."
"What became of him?"
"He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
road."
"Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face,
"whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's
gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to attend
to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round
the house."
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or
nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest
details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of
clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been
left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which
showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a
good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them
in Spanish, and old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were
among the personal property.
"Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand,
from room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention
to the kitchen."
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house,
with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a
bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and
dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner.
"Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood
at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and
withered that it was difficult to say what it might have been.
One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore
some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I
examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and
then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was
left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double
band of white shells were strung round the centre of it.
"Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes,
peering at this sinister relic. "Anything more?"
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn
savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all
over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.
"A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
curious case."
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last.
>From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a
quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped
with small pieces of charred bone.
"Something has been killed and something has been burned. We
raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this
morning. He says that they are not human."
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
"I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive
and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without
offence, seem superior to your opportunities."
Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
"You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case
of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take
it. What do you make of these bones?"
"A lamb, I should say, or a kid."
"And the white cock?"
"Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."
"Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with
some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did
his companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should
have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are
different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different."
"You have a theory then?"
"And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own
credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make
mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had
solved it without your help."
Holmes laughed good-humoredly.
"Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I
will follow mine. My results are always very much at your
service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have
seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more
profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As
impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none the
less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game
was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I
asked no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and
lend my humble help to the capture without distracting that
intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to
me in due time.
I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I
waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step
forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a
casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save
for this one excursion, he spent his days in long and often
solitary walks, or in chatting with a number of village gossips
whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
"I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to
you," he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green
shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again.
With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there
are instructive days to be spent." He prowled about with this
equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he
would bring back of an evening.
Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His
fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes
glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the
case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not
dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however,
that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the
crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large letters:
THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY
A SOLUTION
ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read
the headlines.
"By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"
"Apparently," said I as I read the following report:
"Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring
district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had
been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be
remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on
Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and
that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which
appeared to show their participation in the crime. It was
suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have
had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the
motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes,
who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the
fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not
gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already
prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of
one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through
the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge
and hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced
negroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was
detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening,
when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector
Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in
view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the
house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked
into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in
which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We
understand that when the prison is brought before the magistrates
a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great
developments are hoped from his capture."
"Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down
the village street and found, as we had expected, that the
inspector was just leaving his lodgings.
"You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to
us.
"Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I
give you a word of friendly warning."
"Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"
"I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not
convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to
commit yourself too far unless you are sure."
"You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."
"I assure you I speak for your good."
It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an
instant over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.
"We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I
am doing."
"Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."
"No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."
"Let us say no more about it."
"You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect
savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He
chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him.
He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of
him but grunts."
"And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late
master?"
"I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our
little ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the
agreement."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I
can't make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well,
as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of
it. But there's something in Inspector Baynes which I can't
quite understand."
"Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when
we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you
in touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night.
Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been
able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading
features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties
in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which
we have still to fill.
"We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon
the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's
that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof
of this lies in the fact that it was HE who had arranged for the
presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the
purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise,
and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the
course of which he met his death. I say 'criminal' because only
a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi.
Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the
person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far
it seems to me that we are on safe ground.
"We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's
household. They were ALL confederates in the same unknown crime.
If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would
be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all would be
well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did NOT
return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had
been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a
case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot
where they could escape investigation and be in a position
afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the
facts, would it not?"
The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me.
I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me
before.
"But why should one servant return?"
"We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something
precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had
been left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it
not?"
"Well, what is the next step?"
"The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the
other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in
some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited.
My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks
in which in the intervals of my botanical researches I made a
reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the
family history of the occupants. One house, and only one,
riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less
than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other
mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far
aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all
accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall.
I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his
household.
"A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most
singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible
pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes
that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black
eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce,
masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face.
He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and
secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate
brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of
speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable--so our
gaps are beginning to close.
"These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of
the household; but there is one other person who for our
immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two
children--girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a
Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is
also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the
real family, for their travel about together, and Henderson is a
great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last
weeks that he has returned, after a year's absence, to High
Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his
whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his
house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual
overfed, underworked staff of a large English country house.
"So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my
own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged
servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I
call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been
looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems.
It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late
gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his
imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor
servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So
I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
"Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all
yet, but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house,
and the servants live on one side, the family on the other.
There's no link between the two save for Henderson's own servant,
who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a
certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and
children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson
never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his
shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is
terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul to the devil in
exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his creditor to
come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who they
are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
"Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
information. We may take it that the letter came out of this
strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out
some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then
but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point
that way. At any rate, we may take it asa hypothesis and see
what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's
age and character make it certain that my first idea that there
might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
"If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and
confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do
if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she
must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed
him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge
upon them. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was
my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss
Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the
murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the
friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner?
There is the point which we still have to decide.
"You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson.
There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our
whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate.
The woman's disappearance counts for nothing, since in that
extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a
week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her
life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent,
Warner, on guard at the gates. We can't let such a situation
continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk
ourselves."
"What do you suggest?"
"I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an
outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if
we can strike at the very heart of the mystery."
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old
house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact
that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-
cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from
any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and
only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in
silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the
shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an
excited rustic rushed into our room.
"They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The
lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."
"Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
"Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly."
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some
recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as
she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She
was drugged with opium.
"I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said
our emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came
out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in
her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came
to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab,
and here we are. I shan't forget the face at the carriage window
as I led her away. I'd have a short life if he had his way--the
black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil."
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of
cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the
mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the
situation rapidly explained to him.
"Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the
same scent as you from the first."
"What! You were after Henderson?"
"Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you
down below. It was just who would get his evidence first."
"Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"
Baynes chuckled.
"I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as
he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to
make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be
likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
Burnet."
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.
"You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
intuition," said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
"I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the
week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in
sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet
broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends
well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so
the sooner we get a statement the better."
"Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"
"Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once call
the Tiger of San Pedro."
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back
to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and
bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a
pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he
had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices
upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a
terror through all Central America. At the end of that time
there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning
as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he
had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was
manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was
stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two
children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
>From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity
had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
"Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes.
"If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are
green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he
called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid
to Barcelona, where his ship came in in '86. They've been
looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only
now that they have begun to find him out."
"They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat
up and was now intently following the conversation. "Once
already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit
shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who
has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come,
and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as
certain as the rise of to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands
clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her
hatred.
"But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes.
"How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"
"I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload
of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like
crimes committed in some other planet. But WE know. We have
learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no
fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his
victims still cry for vengeance."
"No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he
was atrocious. But how are you affected?"
"I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on
one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he
might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my
real name is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister
in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never
lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence,
recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a
premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His
estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
broken heart.
"Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have
just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose
nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands,
would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a
society which should never be dissolved until the work was done.
It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed
Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household
and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able
to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He
little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the
woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's notice into
eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and
bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-
zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken
upon his first arrival in England.
"But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing
that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former
highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty
companions of humble station, all three fired with the same
reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for
Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his
satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his
greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to
see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all
was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.
"But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited
the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and
sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his
master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a
convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged
their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the
consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they
concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined
to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo
twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that
he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed
it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant,
Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was
Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to
guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes
through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed.
At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to
kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were
mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be
publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.
With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a
death might frighten others from the task.
"All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my
room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used
to break my spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises
from end to end of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on
the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five
days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food
to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was
brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been
drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-
carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I
suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang
out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help
of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had
broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It
was Holmes who broke the silence.
"Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head.
"Our police work ends, but our legal work begins."
"Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an
act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the
background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried."
"Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law
than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold
blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever
danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified
when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford
Assizes."
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still
to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his
deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer
off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street
and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day
they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards
the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were
both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.
The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never
arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a
printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the
masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows
of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had
come at last.
"A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening
pipe. "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact
form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents,
concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further
complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia
had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-
preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a
perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator,
the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so
been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any
point which is not quite clear to you?"
"The object of the mulatto cook's return?"
"I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for
it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San
Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had
fled to some prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a
confederate--the companion had persuaded him to leave so
compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto's heart
was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on
reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in
possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or
his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,
who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before
me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into
which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"
"The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the
mystery of that weird kitchen?"
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.
"I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and
other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and
the Negroid Religions:
"'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance
without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his
unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of
human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims
are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black
goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.'
"So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual.
It is grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his
notebook, "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but
one step from the grotesque to the horrible."
This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy
day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had
received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had
scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in
his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a
thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional
glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,"
said he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"
"Strange--remarkable," I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
"There is surely something more than that," said he; "some
underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you
cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you
have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how
often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of
that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque
enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at
robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the
five orange pips, which let straight to a murderous conspiracy.
The word puts me on the alert."
"Have you it there?" I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
"Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
consult you?
"Scott Eccles,
"Post Office, Charing Cross."
"Man or woman?" I asked.
"Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid
telegram. She would have come."
"Will you see him?"
"My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked
up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing
itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for
which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile;
audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the
criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look
into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here,
unless I am mistaken, is our client."
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy
features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed
spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces
in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his
flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.
"I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr.
Holmes," said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a
situation. It is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist
upon some explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing
voice. "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at
all?"
"Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit
that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a
class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less,
having heard your name--"
"Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at
once?"
Holmes glanced at his watch.
"It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was
dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and
attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment
of your waking."
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
chin.
"You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet.
I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been
running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to
the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent
was paid up all right and that everything was in order at
Wisteria Lodge."
"Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my
friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories
wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me
know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which
have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and
waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance."
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own
unconventional appearance.
"I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware
that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But
will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so
you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse
me."
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle
outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust
and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to
us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant,
and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands
with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of
the Surrey Constabulary.
"We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are
you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"
"I am."
"We have been following you about all the morning."
"You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes.
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
Post-Office and came on here."
"But why do you follow me? What do you want?"
"We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which
let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of
Wisteria Lodge, near Esher."
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
struck from his astonished face.
"Dead? Did you say he was dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"But how? An accident?"
"Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."
"Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I
am suspected?"
"A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we
know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."
"So I did."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
Out came the official notebook.
"Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is
a plain statement, is it not?"
"And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
against him."
"Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the
room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm.
Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to
your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly
as you would have done had you never been interrupted."
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned
to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook,
he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.
"I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I
cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family
of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion,
Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a
young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish
descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke
perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking
a man as ever I saw in my life.
"In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow
and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and
within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One
thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to
spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and
Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this
engagement.
"He had described his household to me before I went there. He
lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who
looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and
did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook,
he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who
could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked
what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and
that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer
than I thought.
"I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of
Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the
road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen
shrubs. It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of
disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in
front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as
to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He
opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great
show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a
melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his
hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner
was tete-a-tete, and though my host did his best to be
entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him.
He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his
nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner
itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy
presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I
can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back
to Lee.
"One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon
the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought
nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was
handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read
it he seemed even more distrait and strange than before. He gave
up all pretence at conversation and sat, smoking endless
cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to
the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time
later Garcia looked in at my door--the room was dark at the time-
-and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He
apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was
nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly
all night.
"And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it
was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was
nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so
I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up
and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again
and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion
that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and
hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot
water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was
no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then
I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me
which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door.
No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook,
all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to
Wisteria Lodge."
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added
this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
"Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said
he. "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"
"I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of
some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall
door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I
called at Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village,
and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been
rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be
for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main objet
must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-
day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was
obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been
paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the
Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went
to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I
found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since
I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult
cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said
when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and
that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure you that every word
I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told
you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My
only desire is to help the law in every possible way."
"I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said
Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say
that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the
facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was
that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe
what became of it?"
"Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."
"What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a
slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from
his pocket.
"It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked
this out unburned from the back of it."
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
"You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
pellet of paper."
"I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"
The Londoner nodded.
"The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two
snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over
three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and
pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr.
Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
"Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
"It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It
is thicker and bolder, as you see."
"A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added.
The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of
such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as
the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve
in each."
The country detective chuckled.
"I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see
there was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make
nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and
that a woman, as usual was at the bottom of it."
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this
conversation.
"I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,"
said he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what
has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his
household."
"As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was
found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from
his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a
sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than
wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a
quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck
down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him
long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There
are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals."
"Robbed?"
"No, there was no attempt at robbery."
"This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on
me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal
excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed
up with the case?"
"Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only
document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from
you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death.
It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's
name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached
his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I
wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined
Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and
here we are."
"I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
into an official shape. You will come round with us to the
station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in
writing."
"Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at
the truth."
My friend turned to the country inspector.
"I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with
you, Mr. Baynes?"
"Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."
"You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that
you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact
hour that the man met his death?"
"He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that
time, and his death had certainly been before the rain."
"But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
"His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he
who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."
"Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.
"You have a clue?" asked Gregson.
"On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A
further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to
give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did
you find anything remarkable besides this note in your
examination of the house?"
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
"There were," said he, "one or two VERY remarkable things.
Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care
to come out and give me your opinion of them."
In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing
the bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and
kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-
shilling reply."
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.
Holmes smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen
eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic
of the man.
"Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you
make of it?"
"I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."
"But the crime?"
"Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I
should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and
had fled from justice."
"That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it
you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two
servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should
have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had
him alone at their mercy every other night in the week."
"Then why did they fly?"
"Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big
fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles.
Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity
to furnish an explanation which would cover both of these big
facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious
note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be
worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts
which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme,
then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution."
"But what is our hypothesis?"
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
"You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed,
and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some
connection with them."
"But what possible connection?"
"Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it,
something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship
between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former
who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of
London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in
close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what
did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no
charm in the man. He is not particulary intelligent--not a man
likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he
picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as
particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional
British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress
another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors
dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was."
"But what was he to witness?"
"Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone
another way. That is how I read the matter."
"I see, he might have proved an alibi."
"Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria
Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it
may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some
juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have
got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case
it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him
that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia
could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned
he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was
this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law
that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an
insurance against the worst."
"Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
others?"
"I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in
front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them
round to fit your theories."
"And the message?"
"How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds
like racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a
signal. 'Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green
baize.' This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband
at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She
would not have said 'Godspeed' had it not been so. 'D'--that
should be a guide."
"The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores,
a common female name in Spain."
"Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard
would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is
certainly English. Well, we can only possess our soul in
patience until this excellent inspector come back for us.
Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a
few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness."
An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey
officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it
in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He
tossed it across with a laugh.
"We are moving in exalted circles," said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers;
Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams,
Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone,
Nether Walsling.
"This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has
already adopted some similar plan."
"I don't quite understand."
"Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion
that the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment
or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct,
and in order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and
seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that
the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this
house cannot be more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since
Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my
reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to
avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one
o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be
limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here
they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein
must lie among them."
It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found
comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the
company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was
a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain
beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over
which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.
2. The Tiger of San Pedro
A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a
high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts.
The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-
black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon
the left of the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
"There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at
the window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with
his hand on the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man
spring up from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry
from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-
breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in
his trembling hand.
"What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a
long sigh of relief.
"I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
don't think my nerve is as good as it was."
"Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve
in your body."
"Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in
the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had
come again."
"That what had come again?"
"The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."
"What was at the window, and when?"
"It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I
was sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look
up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane.
Lord, sir, what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."
"Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."
"I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour
that I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of
milk in it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours,
sir. And the look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the
line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I
couldn't move a finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away
and was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but thank God
there was no one there."
"If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a
black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a
constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay
his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision
and a touch of nerves?"
"That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting
his little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short
examination of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should
say. If he was all on the same scale as his foot he must
certainly have been a giant."
"What became of him?"
"He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
road."
"Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face,
"whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's
gone for the present, and we have more immediate things to attend
to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round
the house."
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or
nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest
details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of
clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been
left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which
showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a
good payer. Odds and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them
in Spanish, and old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were
among the personal property.
"Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand,
from room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention
to the kitchen."
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house,
with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a
bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and
dirty plates, the debris of last night's dinner.
"Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood
at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and
withered that it was difficult to say what it might have been.
One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore
some resemblance to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I
examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and
then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was
left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double
band of white shells were strung round the centre of it.
"Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes,
peering at this sinister relic. "Anything more?"
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn
savagely to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all
over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.
"A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
curious case."
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last.
>From under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a
quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped
with small pieces of charred bone.
"Something has been killed and something has been burned. We
raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this
morning. He says that they are not human."
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
"I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive
and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without
offence, seem superior to your opportunities."
Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
"You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case
of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take
it. What do you make of these bones?"
"A lamb, I should say, or a kid."
"And the white cock?"
"Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."
"Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with
some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did
his companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should
have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are
different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different."
"You have a theory then?"
"And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own
credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make
mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had
solved it without your help."
Holmes laughed good-humoredly.
"Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I
will follow mine. My results are always very much at your
service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have
seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more
profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As
impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none the
less a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his
brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game
was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I
asked no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and
lend my humble help to the capture without distracting that
intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to
me in due time.
I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I
waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step
forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a
casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save
for this one excursion, he spent his days in long and often
solitary walks, or in chatting with a number of village gossips
whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
"I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to
you," he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green
shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again.
With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there
are instructive days to be spent." He prowled about with this
equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he
would bring back of an evening.
Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His
fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes
glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the
case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not
dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however,
that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the
crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large letters:
THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY
A SOLUTION
ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read
the headlines.
"By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"
"Apparently," said I as I read the following report:
"Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring
district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had
been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be
remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on
Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and
that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which
appeared to show their participation in the crime. It was
suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have
had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the
motive of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes,
who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding place of the
fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they had not
gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been already
prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of
one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through
the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge
and hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced
negroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was
detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening,
when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector
Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in
view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the
house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked
into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in
which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage. We
understand that when the prison is brought before the magistrates
a remand will be applied for by the police, and that great
developments are hoped from his capture."
"Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down
the village street and found, as we had expected, that the
inspector was just leaving his lodgings.
"You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to
us.
"Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I
give you a word of friendly warning."
"Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"
"I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not
convinced that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to
commit yourself too far unless you are sure."
"You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."
"I assure you I speak for your good."
It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an
instant over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.
"We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I
am doing."
"Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."
"No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."
"Let us say no more about it."
"You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect
savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He
chewed Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him.
He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of
him but grunts."
"And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late
master?"
"I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our
little ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the
agreement."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I
can't make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well,
as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of
it. But there's something in Inspector Baynes which I can't
quite understand."
"Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when
we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you
in touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night.
Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been
able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading
features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties
in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which
we have still to fill.
"We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon
the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's
that Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof
of this lies in the fact that it was HE who had arranged for the
presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the
purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise,
and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the
course of which he met his death. I say 'criminal' because only
a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi.
Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the
person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far
it seems to me that we are on safe ground.
"We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's
household. They were ALL confederates in the same unknown crime.
If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would
be warded off by the Englishman's evidence, and all would be
well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did NOT
return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had
been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a
case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot
where they could escape investigation and be in a position
afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully explain the
facts, would it not?"
The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me.
I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me
before.
"But why should one servant return?"
"We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something
precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had
been left behind. That would explain his persistence, would it
not?"
"Well, what is the next step?"
"The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the
other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in
some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited.
My first days in this village were devoted to a series of walks
in which in the intervals of my botanical researches I made a
reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the
family history of the occupants. One house, and only one,
riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less
than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other
mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far
aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all
accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall.
I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his
household.
"A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most
singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible
pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes
that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black
eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce,
masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face.
He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and
secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate
brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of
speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable--so our
gaps are beginning to close.
"These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of
the household; but there is one other person who for our
immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two
children--girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a
Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is
also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the
real family, for their travel about together, and Henderson is a
great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last
weeks that he has returned, after a year's absence, to High
Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his
whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his
house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual
overfed, underworked staff of a large English country house.
"So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my
own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged
servants with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I
call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been
looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems.
It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late
gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his
imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor
servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So
I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
"Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all
yet, but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house,
and the servants live on one side, the family on the other.
There's no link between the two save for Henderson's own servant,
who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a
certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and
children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson
never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his
shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is
terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul to the devil in
exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his creditor to
come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who they
are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
"Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
information. We may take it that the letter came out of this
strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out
some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note?
It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then
but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point
that way. At any rate, we may take it asa hypothesis and see
what consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's
age and character make it certain that my first idea that there
might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
"If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and
confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do
if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious
enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she
must retain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed
him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge
upon them. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was
my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss
Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the
murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the
friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner?
There is the point which we still have to decide.
"You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson.
There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our
whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate.
The woman's disappearance counts for nothing, since in that
extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a
week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her
life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent,
Warner, on guard at the gates. We can't let such a situation
continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk
ourselves."
"What do you suggest?"
"I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an
outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if
we can strike at the very heart of the mystery."
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old
house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact
that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all
combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-
cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from
any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and
only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in
silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the
shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an
excited rustic rushed into our room.
"They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The
lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."
"Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
"Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly."
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some
recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as
she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her
pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She
was drugged with opium.
"I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said
our emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came
out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in
her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came
to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She
fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab,
and here we are. I shan't forget the face at the carriage window
as I led her away. I'd have a short life if he had his way--the
black-eyed, scowling, yellow devil."
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of
cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the
mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the
situation rapidly explained to him.
"Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the
same scent as you from the first."
"What! You were after Henderson?"
"Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you
down below. It was just who would get his evidence first."
"Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"
Baynes chuckled.
"I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as
he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to
make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be
likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss
Burnet."
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.
"You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
intuition," said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
"I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the
week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in
sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet
broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends
well. We can't arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so
the sooner we get a statement the better."
"Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"
"Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once call
the Tiger of San Pedro."
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back
to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and
bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a
pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he
had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices
upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a
terror through all Central America. At the end of that time
there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning
as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he
had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was
manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was
stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two
children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
>From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity
had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
"Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes.
"If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are
green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he
called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid
to Barcelona, where his ship came in in '86. They've been
looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only
now that they have begun to find him out."
"They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat
up and was now intently following the conversation. "Once
already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit
shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who
has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come,
and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as
certain as the rise of to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands
clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her
hatred.
"But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes.
"How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"
"I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload
of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like
crimes committed in some other planet. But WE know. We have
learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no
fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his
victims still cry for vengeance."
"No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he
was atrocious. But how are you affected?"
"I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on
one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he
might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my
real name is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister
in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never
lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence,
recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a
premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His
estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a
broken heart.
"Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have
just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose
nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands,
would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a
society which should never be dissolved until the work was done.
It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed
Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household
and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able
to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He
little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the
woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's notice into
eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and
bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-
zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken
upon his first arrival in England.
"But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing
that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former
highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty
companions of humble station, all three fired with the same
reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for
Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his
satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his
greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger
might find him. On a certain evening, which had been
prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was
forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to
see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all
was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.
"But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited
the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and
sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his
master dragged me to my room and held judgment upon me as a
convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged
their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the
consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they
concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined
to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo
twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that
he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed
it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant,
Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was
Murillo's hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to
guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes
through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed.
At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to
kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were
mixed up in an inquiry their own identity would at once be
publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks.
With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a
death might frighten others from the task.
"All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my
room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used
to break my spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises
from end to end of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on
the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five
days this cruel imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food
to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was
brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been
drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-
carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the
train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I
suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang
out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help
of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never had
broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It
was Holmes who broke the silence.
"Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head.
"Our police work ends, but our legal work begins."
"Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an
act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the
background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried."
"Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law
than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold
blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever
danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified
when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford
Assizes."
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still
to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his
deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer
off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street
and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day
they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards
the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were
both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid.
The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never
arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a
printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the
masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows
of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had
come at last.
"A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening
pipe. "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact
form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents,
concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further
complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend,
Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia
had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-
preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a
perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy collaborator,
the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so
been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is there any
point which is not quite clear to you?"
"The object of the mulatto cook's return?"
"I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for
it. The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San
Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had
fled to some prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a
confederate--the companion had persuaded him to leave so
compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto's heart
was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on
reconnoitering through the window, he found policeman Walters in
possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety or
his superstition drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes,
who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the incident before
me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into
which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"
"The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the
mystery of that weird kitchen?"
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.
"I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and
other points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and
the Negroid Religions:
"'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance
without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his
unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites take the form of
human sacrifices followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims
are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black
goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.'
"So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual.
It is grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his
notebook, "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but
one step from the grotesque to the horrible."
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow
fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I
doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker
Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day
Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references.
The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject
which he hand recently made his hobby--the music of the Middle
Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our
chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still
drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-
panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this
drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-
room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping
the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.
In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything
of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a
possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these
did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see
nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace
and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.
"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.
"Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are
dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The
thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the
tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident
only to his victim."
"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."
Holmes snorted his contempt.
"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy
than that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I
am not a criminal."
"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.
"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men
who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive
against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the
Latin countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here
comes something at last to break our dead monotony."
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst
out laughing.
"Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming
round."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country
lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall
lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once,
and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have
derailed him?"
"Does he not explain?"
Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.
Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
Mycroft.
"Cadogen West? I have heard the name."
"It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break
out in this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its
orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft is?"
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of
the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
"You told me that he had some small office under the British
government."
Holmes chuckled.
"I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right
in thinking that he under the British government. You would also
be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he IS the
British government."
"My dear Holmes!"
"I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and
fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of
any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the
most indispensable man in the country."
"But how?"
"Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself.
There has never been anything like it before, nor will be again.
He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest
capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great
powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used
for this particular business. The conclusions of every
department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the
clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are
specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will suppose
that a minister needs information as to a point which involves
the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get
his separate advices from various departments upon each, but only
Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would
affect the other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a
convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great
brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in
an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as
an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask
him to advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is
descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan
West, and what is he to Mycroft?"
"I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon
the sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was
the young man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday
morning."
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
"This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my
brother to alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the
world can he have to do with it? The case was featureless as I
remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the
train and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and there was
no particular reason to suspect violence. Is that not so?"
"There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say
that it was a curious case."
"Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be
a most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair.
"Now, Watson, let us have the facts."
"The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven
years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."
"Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"
"He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog
about 7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and
she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of
him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named
Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in
London."
"When?"
"The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide
of the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes
eastward, at a point close to the station, where the line emerges
from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an
injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the
train. The body could only have come on the line in that way.
Had it been carried down from any neighbouring street, it must
have passed the station barriers, where a collector is always
standing. This point seems absolutely certain."
"Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or
alive, either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is
clear to me. Continue."
"The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the
body was found are those which run from west to east, some being
purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying
junctions. It can be stated for certain that this young man,
when he met his death, was travelling in this direction at some
late hour of the night, but at what point he entered the train it
is impossible to state."
"His ticket, of course, would show that."
"There was no ticket in his pockets."
"No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular.
According to my experience it is not possible to reach the
platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket.
Presumably, then, the young man had one. Was it taken from him
in order to conceal the station from which he came? It is
possible. Or did he drop it in the carriage? That is also
possible. But the point is of curious interest. I understand
that there was no sign of robbery?"
"Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His
purse contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on
the Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through
this his identity was established. There were also two dress-
circle tickets for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very
evening. Also a small packet of technical papers."
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
"There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is
complete. But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for
himself."
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was
ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a
suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above
this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its
brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its
lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the
first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the
dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin
and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some
weighty quest. The detective shook hands without a word.
Mycroft Holmes struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an
armchair.
"A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely
dislike altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no
denial. In the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I
should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have
never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it
is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the
case?"
"We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"
"Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The
press would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched
youth had in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine."
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of
the importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.
"Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of
it."
"Only as a name."
"Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it
from me that naval warfare becomes impossible withing the radius
of a Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large
sum was smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in
acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been
made to keep the secret. The plans, which are exceedingly
intricate, comprising some thirty separate patents, each
essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an elaborate
safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with
burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he
was forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet
here we find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the
heart of London. From an official point of view it's simply
awful."
"But you have recovered them?"
"No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers
were taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of
Cadogan West. The three most essential are gone--stolen,
vanished. You must drop everything, Sherlock. Never mind your
usual petty puzzles of the police-court. It's a vital
international problem that you have to solve. Why did Cadogan
West take the papers, where are the missing ones, how did he die,
how came his body where it was found, how can the evil be set
right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will have
done good service for your country."
"Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far
as I."
"Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details.
Give me your details, and from an armchair I will return you an
excellent expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to
cross-question railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to
my eye--it is not my metier. No, you are the one man who can
clear the matter up. If you have a fancy to see your name in the
next honours list--"
My friend smiled and shook his head.
"I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the
problem certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall
be very pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."
"I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of
paper, together with a few addresses which you will find of
service. The actual official guardian of the papers is the
famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and
sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown
gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most
exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond
suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the safe. I may
add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during working
hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three
o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when
this incident occurred."
"Has the fact been verified?"
"Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the
problem."
"Who was the other man with a key?"
"The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a
man of forty, married, with five children. He is a silent,
morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the
public service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard
worker. According to his own account, corroborated only by the
word of his wife, he was at home the whole of Monday evening
after office hours, and his key has never left the watch-chain
upon which it hangs."
"Tell us about Cadogan West."
"He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He
has the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a
straight, honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next
Sidney Johnson in the office. His duties brought him into daily,
personal contact with the plans. No one else had the handling of
them."
"Who locked up the plans that night?"
"Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."
"Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan
West. That seems final, does it not?"
"It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In
the first place, why did he take them?"
"I presume they were of value?"
"He could have got several thousands for them very easily."
"Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to
London except to sell them?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West
took the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false
key--"
"Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."
"He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London
to sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans
themselves back in the safe next morning before they were missed.
While in London on this treasonable mission he met his end."
"How?"
"We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he
was killed and thrown out of the compartment."
"Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the
station London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."
"Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example,
with whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview
led to a violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he
tried to leave the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his
end. The other closed the door. There was a thick fog, and
nothing could be seen."
"No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge;
and yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We
will suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West HAD
determined to convey these papers to London. He would naturally
have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept his
evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the
theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly
disappeared."
"A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some
impatience to the conversation.
"A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2:
We will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign
agent. He must bring back the papers before morning or the loss
will be discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his
pocket. What had become of the other three? He certainly would
not leave them of his own free will. Then, again, where is the
price of his treason? Once would have expected to find a large
sum of money in his pocket."
"It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no
doubt at all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell
them. He saw the agent. They could not agree as to price. He
started home again, but the agent went with him. In the train
the agent murdered him, took the more essential papers, and threw
his body from the carriage. That would account for everything,
would it not?"
"Why had he no ticket?"
"The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the
agent's house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's
pocket."
"Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On
the one hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of
the Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the
Continent. What is there for us to do?"
"To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
"All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers!
Go to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave
no stone unturned! In all your career you have never had so
great a chance of serving your country."
"Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come,
Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company
for an hour or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit
to Aldgate Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a
report before evening, but I warn you in advance that you have
little to expect."
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel
immediately before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old
gentleman represented the railway company.
"This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a
spot about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen
from above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls.
Therefore, it could only have come from a train, and that train,
so far as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight on
Monday."
"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"
"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."
"No record of a door being found open?"
"None."
"We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade.
"A passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train
about 11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud,
as of a body striking the line, just before the train reached the
station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be
seen. He made no report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the
matter with Mr. Holmes?"
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity
upon his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved
out of the tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a
network of points. On these his eager, questioning eyes were
fixed, and I saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the
lips, that quiver of the nostrils, and concentration of the
heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
"Points," he muttered; "the points."
"What of it? What do you mean?"
"I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such
as this?"
"No; they are very few."
"And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were
only so."
"What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"
"An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows
in interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do
not see any indications of bleeding on the line."
"There were hardly any."
"But I understand that there was a considerable wound."
"The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."
"And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be
possible for me to inspect the train which contained the
passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?"
"I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before
now, and the carriages redistributed."
"I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every
carriage has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."
It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.
"Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not
the carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done
all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr.
Lestrade. I think our investigations must now carry us to
Woolwich."
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which
he handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker
Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international
agents known to be in England, with full address.
Sherlock.
"That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our
seats in the Woolwich train. "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a
debt for having introduced us to what promises to be a really
very remarkable case."
His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-
strung energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive
circumstance had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See
the foxhound with hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls
about the kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with
gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it runs upon a breast-high
scent--such was the change in Holmes since the morning. He was a
different man from the limp and lounging figure in the mouse-
coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a few
hours before round the fog-girt room.
"There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull
indeed not to have understood its possibilities."
"Even now they are dark to me."
"The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which
may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body
was on the ROOF of a carriage."
"On the roof!"
"Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a
coincidence that it is found at the very point where the train
pitches and sways as it comes round on the points? Is not that
the place where an object upon the roof might be expected to fall
off? The points would affect no object inside the train. Either
the body fell from the roof, or a very curious coincidence has
occurred. But now consider the question of the blood. Of
course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had bled
elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they
have a cumulative force."
"And the ticket, too!" I cried.
"Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This
would explain it. Everything fits together."
"But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from
unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not
simpler but stranger."
"Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed
into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up
at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew
Mycroft's paper from his pocket.
"We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said
he. "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green
lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog
was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A
butler answered our ring.
"Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
morning."
"Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"
"Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother,
Colonel Valentine?"
"Yes, we had best do so."
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant
later we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man
of fifty, the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild
eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden
blow which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly
articulate as he spoke of it.
"It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James,
was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such
an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the
efficiency of his department, and this was a crushing blow."
"We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
would have helped us to clear the matter up."
"I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you
and to all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the
disposal of the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan
West was guilty. But all the rest was inconceivable."
"You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"
"I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes,
that we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to
hasten this interview to an end."
"This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when
we had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or
whether the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may
it be taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We
must leave that question to the future. Now we shall turn to the
Cadogan Wests."
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town
sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with
grief to be of any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced
young lady, who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the
fiancee of the dead man, and the last to see him upon that fatal
night.
"I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an
eye since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and
day, what the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most
single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would
have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret
confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous
to anyone who knew him."
"But the facts, Miss Westbury?"
"Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."
"Was he in any want of money?"
"No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had
saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."
"No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
absolutely frank with us."
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her
manner. She coloured and hesitated.
"Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was
something on his mind."
"For long?"
"Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried.
Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that there was
something, and that it was concerned with his official life. 'It
is too serious for me to speak about, even to you,' said he. I
could get nothing more."
Holmes looked grave.
"Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go
on. We cannot say what it may lead to."
"Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to
me that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke
one evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some
recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a
great deal to have it."
My friend's face grew graver still.
"Anything else?"
"He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be
easy for a traitor to get the plans."
"Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"
"Yes, quite recently."
"Now tell us of that last evening."
"We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab
was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office.
Suddenly he darted away into the fog."
"Without a word?"
"He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never
returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office
opened, they came to inquire. About twelve o'clock we heard the
terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his
honour! It was so much to him."
Holmes shook his head sadly.
"Come, Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next
station must be the office from which the papers were taken.
"It was black enough before against this young man, but our
inquiries make it blacker," he remarked as the cab lumbered off.
"His coming marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally
wanted money. The idea was in his head, since he spoke about it.
He nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by telling
her his plans. It is all very bad."
"But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again,
why should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to
commit a felony?"
"Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a
formidable case which they have to meet."
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
received us with that respect which my companion's card always
commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age,
his cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous
strain to which he had been subjected.
"It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of
the chief?"
"We have just come from his house."
"The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead,
our papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday
evening, we were as efficient an office as any in the government
service. Good God, it's dreadful to think of! That West, of all
men, should have done such a thing!"
"You are sure of his guilt, then?"
"I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted
him as I trust myself."
"At what hour was the office closed on Monday?"
"At five."
"Did you close it?"
"I am always the last man out."
"Where were the plans?"
"In that safe. I put them there myself."
"Is there no watchman to the building?"
"There is, but he has other departments to look after as well.
He is an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing
that evening. Of course the fog was very thick."
"Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the
building after hours; he would need three keys, would he not,
before the could reach the papers?"
"Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the
office, and the key of the safe."
"Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?"
"I had no keys of the doors--only of the safe."
"Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?"
"Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them
there."
"And that ring went with him to London?"
"He said so."
"And your key never left your possession?"
"Never."
"Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And
yet none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk
in this office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply
to copy the plans for himself than to take the originals, as was
actually done?"
"It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans
in an effective way."
"But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that
technical knowledge?"
"No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into the
matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this
way when the original plans were actually found on West?"
"Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of
taking originals if he could safely have taken copies, which
would have equally served his turn."
"Singular, no doubt--and yet he did so."
"Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now
there are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand,
the vital ones."
"Yes, that is so."
"Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
submarine?"
"I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have
been over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The
double valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn
in one of the papers which have been returned. Until the
foreigners had invented that for themselves they could not make
the boat. Of course they might soon get over the difficulty."
"But the three missing drawings are the most important?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round
the premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired
to ask."
He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and
finally the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we
were on the lawn outside that his interest was strongly excited.
There was a laurel bush outside the window, and several of the
branches bore signs of having been twisted or snapped. He
examined them carefully with his lens, and then some dim and
vague marks upon the earth beneath. Finally he asked the chief
clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me that
they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for
anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.
"The indications are ruined by three days' delay. They may mean
something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich
can help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered.
Let us see if we can do better in London."
Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left
Woolwich Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say
with confidence that he saw Cadogan West--whom he knew well by
sight--upon the Monday night, and that he went to London by the
8:15 to London Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-
class ticket. The clerk was struck at the time by his excited
and nervous manner. So shaky was he that he could hardly pick up
his change, and the clerk had helped him with it. A reference to
the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train which it
was possible for West to take after he had left the lady about
7:30.
"Let us reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of
silence. "I am not aware that in all our joint researches we
have ever had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every
fresh advance which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond.
And yet we have surely made some appreciable progress.
"The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been
against young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window
would lend themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us
suppose, for example, that he had been approached by some foreign
agent. It might have been done under such pledges as would have
prevented him from speaking of it, and yet would have affected
his thoughts in the direction indicated by his remarks to his
fiancee. Very good. We will now suppose that as he went to the
theatre with the young lady he suddenly, in the fog, caught a
glimpse of this same agent going in the direction of the office.
He was an impetuous man, quick in his decisions. Everything gave
way to his duty. He followed the man, reached the window, saw
the abstraction of the documents, and pursued the thief. In this
way we get over the objection that no one would take originals
when he could make copies. This outsider had to take originals.
So far it holds together."
"What is the next step?"
"Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under
such circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be
to seize the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so?
Could it have been an official superior who took the papers?
That would explain West's conduct. Or could the chief have given
West the slip in the fog, and West started at once to London to
head him off from his own rooms, presuming that he knew where the
rooms were? The call must have been very pressing, since he left
his girl standing in the fog and made no effort to communicate
with her. Our scent runs cold here, and there is a vast gap
between either hypothesis and the laying of West's body, with
seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train.
My instinct now is to work form the other end. If Mycroft has
given us the list of addresses we may be able to pick our man and
follow two tracks instead of one."
Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and
threw it over to me.
There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13
Great George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden
Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens,
Kensington. The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is
now reported as having left. Glad to hear you have seen some
light. The Cabinet awaits your final report with the utmost
anxiety. Urgent representations have arrived from the very
highest quarter. The whole force of the State is at your back if
you should need it.
Mycroft.
"I'm afraid," said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen's horses
and all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter." He had
spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it.
"Well, well," said he presently with an exclamation of
satisfaction, "things are turning a little in our direction at
last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe that we are going to
pull it off, after all." He slapped me on the shoulder with a
sudden burst of hilarity. "I am going out now. It is only a
reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the
odds are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time
hangs heavy get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of
how we saved the State."
I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew
well that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of
demeanour unless there was good cause for exultation. All the
long November evening I waited, filled with impatience for his
return. At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a
messenger with a note:
Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a
dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
S.H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry
through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all
discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the address
given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the door
of the garish Italian restaurant.
"Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and
curacao. Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less
poisonous than one would expect. Have you the tools?"
"They are here, in my overcoat."
"Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done,
with some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be
evident to you, Watson, that this young man's body was PLACED on
the roof of the train. That was clear from the instant that I
determined the fact that it was from the roof, and not from a
carriage, that he had fallen."
"Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?"
"I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you
will find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing
round them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan
West was placed on it."
"How could he be placed there?"
"That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of
tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory
that as I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows
just above my head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such
a window, would there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the
roof?"
"It seems most improbable."
"We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be
the truth. Here all other contingencies HAVE failed. When I
found that the leading international agent, who had just left
London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the
Underground, I was so pleased that you were a little astonished
at my sudden frivolity."
"Oh, that was it, was it?"
"Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens,
had become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester
Road Station, where a very helpful official walked with me along
the track and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the
back-stair windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the
even more essential fact that, owing to the intersection of one
of the larger railways, the Underground trains are frequently
held motionless for some minutes at that very spot."
"Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!"
"So far--so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar.
Well, having seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the
front and satisfied myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is
a considerable house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in
the upper rooms. Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who
was probably a confederate entirely in his confidence. We must
bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose
of his booty, but not with any idea of flight; for he had no
reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur domiciliary
visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely
what we are about to make."
"Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?"
"Hardly on the evidence."
"What can we hope to do?"
"We cannot tell what correspondence may be there."
"I don't like it, Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the
criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of
Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person
who waits for news. We are bound to go."
My answer was to rise from the table.
"You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
"I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a
moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness
than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful,
practical self once more.
"It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,"
said he. "Don't drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a
suspicious character would be a most unfortunate complication."
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared,
and porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the
middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door
there appeared to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of
young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the
night. The fog still hung about and screened us with its
friendly shade. Holmes had lit his lantern and flashed it upon
the massive door.
"This is a serious proposition," said he. "It is certainly
bolted as well as locked. We would do better in the area. There
is an excellent archway down yonder in case a too zealous
policeman should intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I'll do
the same for you."
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached
the dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in
the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work
upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a
sharp crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark
passage, closing the area door behind us. Holmes let the way up
the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of yellow light
shone upon a low window.
"Here we are, Watson--this must be the one." He threw it open,
and as he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily
into a loud roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness.
Holmes swept his light along the window-sill. It was thickly
coated with soot from the passing engines, but the black surface
was blurred and rubbed in places.
"You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark." He was
pointing to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the
window. "Here it is on the stone of the stair also. The
demonstration is complete. Let us stay here until a train
stops."
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the
tunnel as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a
creaking of brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not
four feet from the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages.
Holmes softly closed the window.
"So far we are justified," said he. "What do you think of it,
Watson?"
"A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height."
"I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived
the idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a
very abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not
for the grave interests involved the affair up to this point
would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us.
But perhaps we may find something here which may help us."
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms
upon the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished
and containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom,
which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more
promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic
examination. It was littered with books and papers, and was
evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically Holmes
turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard
after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his
austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when
he started.
"The cunning dog has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left
nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has
been destroyed or removed. This is our last chance."
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk.
Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper
were within, covered with figures and calculations, without any
note to show to what they referred. The recurring words, "water
pressure" and "pressure to the square inch" suggested some
possible relation to a submarine. Holmes tossed them all
impatiently aside. There only remained an envelope with some
small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out on the table,
and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had been
raised.
"What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this? Record of a series of
messages in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony
column by the print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page.
No dates--but messages arrange themselves. This must be the
first:
"Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address
given on card.
"Pierrot.
"Next comes:
"Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff
awaits you when goods delivered.
"Pierrot.
"Then comes:
"Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed.
Make appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.
"Pierrot.
"Finally:
"Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be
so suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.
"Pierrot.
"A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the
man at the other end!" He sat lost in thought, tapping his
fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet.
"Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all. There is
nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive
round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good
day's work to a conclusion."
Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head
over our confessed burglary.
"We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these
days you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend
in trouble."
"For England, home and beauty--eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar
of our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?"
"Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of
it?"
Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.
"Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?"
"What? Another one?"
"Yes, here it is:
"To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally
important. Your own safety at stake.
"Pierrot.
"By George!" cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we've got him!"
"That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both
make it convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to
Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a
solution."
One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was
his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all
his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced
himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember
that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a
monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of
Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment,
and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The
great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high
quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were
trying--all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to
me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our
expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the
outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein's
house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary
for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to
climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine
o'clock we were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our
man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured
beat of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our
hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and
looking twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and
composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert.
He raised his head with a sudden jerk.
"He is coming," said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned.
We heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with
the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas
in the hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door,
and then as a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened
it. "This way!" we heard him say, and a moment later our man
stood before us. Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man
turned with a cry of surprise and alarm he caught him by the
collar and threw him back into the room. Before our prisoner had
recovered his balance the door was shut and Holmes standing with
his back against it. The man glared round him, staggered, and
fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed
hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped sown from his lips,
and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome
delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.
"You can write me down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This
was not the bird that I was looking for."
"Who is he?" asked Mycroft eagerly.
"The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of
the Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards.
He is coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination
to me."
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner
sat up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed
his hand over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own
senses.
"What is this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."
"Everything is known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an
English gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my
comprehension. But your whole correspondence and relations with
Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are the
circumstances connected with the death of young Cadogan West.
Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit for
repentance and confession, since there are still some details
which we can only learn from your lips."
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but
he was silent.
"I can assure you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already
known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered
into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters
through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are
aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday
night, but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West,
who had probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw
your theft, but could not give the alarm, as it was just possible
that you were taking the papers to your brother in London.
Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that he
was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels
until you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then
it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the more
terrible crime of murder."
"I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!"
cried our wretched prisoner.
"Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him
upon the roof of a railway carriage."
"I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess
it. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be
paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five
thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I
am as innocent as you."
"What happened, then?"
"He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you
describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door. It was
thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I had given two
taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The young man rushed up
and demanded to know what we were about to do with the papers.
Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He always carried it with
him. As West forced his way after us into the house Oberstein
struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead
within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at
our wit's end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the
trains which halted under his back window. But first he examined
the papers which I had brought. He said that three of them were
essential, and that he must keep them. 'You cannot keep them,'
said I. 'There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
not returned.' 'I must keep them,' said he, 'for they are so
technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.'
'Then they must all go back together to-night,' said I. He
thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it.
'Three I will keep,' said he. 'The others we will stuff into the
pocket of this young man. When he is found the whole business
will assuredly be put to his account.' I could see no other way
out of it, so we did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at
the window before a train stopped. It was so thick that nothing
could be seen, and we had no difficulty in lowering West's body
on to the train. That was the end of the matter so far as I was
concerned."
"And your brother?"
"He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I
think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected.
As you know, he never held up his head again."
There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.
"Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
possibly your punishment."
"What reparation can I make?"
"Where is Oberstein with the papers?"
"I do not know."
"Did he give you no address?"
"He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would
eventually reach him."
"Then reparation is still within your power," said Sherlock
Holmes.
"I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-
will. He has been my ruin and my downfall."
"Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my
dictation. Direct the envelope to the address given. That is
right. Now the letter:
"Dear Sir:
"With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed
by now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing
which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra
trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance of
five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I
take anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but
it would excite remark if I left the country at present.
Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of the
Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only
English notes, or gold, will be taken.
"That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it
does not fetch our man."
And it did! It is a matter of history--that secret history of a
nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than
its public chronicles--that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup
of his lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for
fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk were found the
invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for
auction in all the naval centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year
of his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his
monograph upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since
been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to
be the last word upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I
learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor,
whence be returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When
I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a
present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had
once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He
said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at that lady's
august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin will
forever recall to my friend's memory the adventure of the Bruce-
Partington plans.
This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow
fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I
doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker
Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day
Holmes had spent in cross-indexing his huge book of references.
The second and third had been patiently occupied upon a subject
which he hand recently made his hobby--the music of the Middle
Ages. But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our
chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still
drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-
panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this
drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-
room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping
the furniture, and chafing against inaction.
"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.
In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything
of criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a
possible war, and of an impending change of government; but these
did not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see
nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace
and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.
"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him.
"Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are
dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The
thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the
tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident
only to his victim."
"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."
Holmes snorted his contempt.
"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy
than that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I
am not a criminal."
"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.
"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men
who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive
against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the
Latin countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here
comes something at last to break our dead monotony."
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst
out laughing.
"Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming
round."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country
lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall
lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once,
and only once, he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have
derailed him?"
"Does he not explain?"
Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.
Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
Mycroft.
"Cadogen West? I have heard the name."
"It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break
out in this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its
orbit. By the way, do you know what Mycroft is?"
I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of
the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.
"You told me that he had some small office under the British
government."
Holmes chuckled.
"I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right
in thinking that he under the British government. You would also
be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he IS the
British government."
"My dear Holmes!"
"I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and
fifty pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of
any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the
most indispensable man in the country."
"But how?"
"Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself.
There has never been anything like it before, nor will be again.
He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest
capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great
powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used
for this particular business. The conclusions of every
department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the
clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are
specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will suppose
that a minister needs information as to a point which involves
the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get
his separate advices from various departments upon each, but only
Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would
affect the other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a
convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great
brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in
an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as
an intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask
him to advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is
descending to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan
West, and what is he to Mycroft?"
"I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon
the sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was
the young man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday
morning."
Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.
"This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my
brother to alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the
world can he have to do with it? The case was featureless as I
remember it. The young man had apparently fallen out of the
train and killed himself. He had not been robbed, and there was
no particular reason to suspect violence. Is that not so?"
"There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say
that it was a curious case."
"Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be
a most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair.
"Now, Watson, let us have the facts."
"The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven
years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."
"Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"
"He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog
about 7:30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and
she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of
him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named
Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in
London."
"When?"
"The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide
of the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes
eastward, at a point close to the station, where the line emerges
from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an
injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the
train. The body could only have come on the line in that way.
Had it been carried down from any neighbouring street, it must
have passed the station barriers, where a collector is always
standing. This point seems absolutely certain."
"Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or
alive, either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is
clear to me. Continue."
"The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the
body was found are those which run from west to east, some being
purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying
junctions. It can be stated for certain that this young man,
when he met his death, was travelling in this direction at some
late hour of the night, but at what point he entered the train it
is impossible to state."
"His ticket, of course, would show that."
"There was no ticket in his pockets."
"No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular.
According to my experience it is not possible to reach the
platform of a Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket.
Presumably, then, the young man had one. Was it taken from him
in order to conceal the station from which he came? It is
possible. Or did he drop it in the carriage? That is also
possible. But the point is of curious interest. I understand
that there was no sign of robbery?"
"Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His
purse contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on
the Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through
this his identity was established. There were also two dress-
circle tickets for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very
evening. Also a small packet of technical papers."
Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
"There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is
complete. But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for
himself."
A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was
ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a
suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above
this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its
brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its
lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the
first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the
dominant mind.
At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin
and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some
weighty quest. The detective shook hands without a word.
Mycroft Holmes struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an
armchair.
"A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely
dislike altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no
denial. In the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I
should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have
never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it
is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the
case?"
"We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"
"Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The
press would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched
youth had in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington
submarine."
Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of
the importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.
"Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of
it."
"Only as a name."
"Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it
from me that naval warfare becomes impossible withing the radius
of a Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large
sum was smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in
acquiring a monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been
made to keep the secret. The plans, which are exceedingly
intricate, comprising some thirty separate patents, each
essential to the working of the whole, are kept in an elaborate
safe in a confidential office adjoining the arsenal, with
burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he
was forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet
here we find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the
heart of London. From an official point of view it's simply
awful."
"But you have recovered them?"
"No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers
were taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of
Cadogan West. The three most essential are gone--stolen,
vanished. You must drop everything, Sherlock. Never mind your
usual petty puzzles of the police-court. It's a vital
international problem that you have to solve. Why did Cadogan
West take the papers, where are the missing ones, how did he die,
how came his body where it was found, how can the evil be set
right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you will have
done good service for your country."
"Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far
as I."
"Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details.
Give me your details, and from an armchair I will return you an
excellent expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to
cross-question railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to
my eye--it is not my metier. No, you are the one man who can
clear the matter up. If you have a fancy to see your name in the
next honours list--"
My friend smiled and shook his head.
"I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the
problem certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall
be very pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."
"I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of
paper, together with a few addresses which you will find of
service. The actual official guardian of the papers is the
famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and
sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown
gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most
exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond
suspicion. He is one of two who have a key of the safe. I may
add that the papers were undoubtedly in the office during working
hours on Monday, and that Sir James left for London about three
o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the house of Admiral
Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the evening when
this incident occurred."
"Has the fact been verified?"
"Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the
problem."
"Who was the other man with a key?"
"The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a
man of forty, married, with five children. He is a silent,
morose man, but he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the
public service. He is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard
worker. According to his own account, corroborated only by the
word of his wife, he was at home the whole of Monday evening
after office hours, and his key has never left the watch-chain
upon which it hangs."
"Tell us about Cadogan West."
"He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He
has the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a
straight, honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next
Sidney Johnson in the office. His duties brought him into daily,
personal contact with the plans. No one else had the handling of
them."
"Who locked up the plans that night?"
"Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."
"Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan
West. That seems final, does it not?"
"It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In
the first place, why did he take them?"
"I presume they were of value?"
"He could have got several thousands for them very easily."
"Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to
London except to sell them?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West
took the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false
key--"
"Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."
"He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London
to sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans
themselves back in the safe next morning before they were missed.
While in London on this treasonable mission he met his end."
"How?"
"We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he
was killed and thrown out of the compartment."
"Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the
station London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."
"Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example,
with whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview
led to a violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he
tried to leave the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his
end. The other closed the door. There was a thick fog, and
nothing could be seen."
"No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge;
and yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We
will suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West HAD
determined to convey these papers to London. He would naturally
have made an appointment with the foreign agent and kept his
evening clear. Instead of that he took two tickets for the
theatre, escorted his fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly
disappeared."
"A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some
impatience to the conversation.
"A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2:
We will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign
agent. He must bring back the papers before morning or the loss
will be discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his
pocket. What had become of the other three? He certainly would
not leave them of his own free will. Then, again, where is the
price of his treason? Once would have expected to find a large
sum of money in his pocket."
"It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no
doubt at all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell
them. He saw the agent. They could not agree as to price. He
started home again, but the agent went with him. In the train
the agent murdered him, took the more essential papers, and threw
his body from the carriage. That would account for everything,
would it not?"
"Why had he no ticket?"
"The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the
agent's house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's
pocket."
"Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On
the one hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of
the Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the
Continent. What is there for us to do?"
"To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
"All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers!
Go to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave
no stone unturned! In all your career you have never had so
great a chance of serving your country."
"Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come,
Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company
for an hour or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit
to Aldgate Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a
report before evening, but I warn you in advance that you have
little to expect."
An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel
immediately before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old
gentleman represented the railway company.
"This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a
spot about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen
from above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls.
Therefore, it could only have come from a train, and that train,
so far as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight on
Monday."
"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"
"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."
"No record of a door being found open?"
"None."
"We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade.
"A passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train
about 11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud,
as of a body striking the line, just before the train reached the
station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be
seen. He made no report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the
matter with Mr. Holmes?"
My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity
upon his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved
out of the tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a
network of points. On these his eager, questioning eyes were
fixed, and I saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the
lips, that quiver of the nostrils, and concentration of the
heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.
"Points," he muttered; "the points."
"What of it? What do you mean?"
"I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such
as this?"
"No; they are very few."
"And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were
only so."
"What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"
"An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows
in interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do
not see any indications of bleeding on the line."
"There were hardly any."
"But I understand that there was a considerable wound."
"The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."
"And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be
possible for me to inspect the train which contained the
passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?"
"I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before
now, and the carriages redistributed."
"I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every
carriage has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."
It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.
"Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not
the carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done
all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr.
Lestrade. I think our investigations must now carry us to
Woolwich."
At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which
he handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:
See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker
Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international
agents known to be in England, with full address.
Sherlock.
"That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our
seats in the Woolwich train. "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a
debt for having introduced us to what promises to be a really
very remarkable case."
His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-
strung energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive
circumstance had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See
the foxhound with hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls
about the kennels, and compare it with the same hound as, with
gleaming eyes and straining muscles, it runs upon a breast-high
scent--such was the change in Holmes since the morning. He was a
different man from the limp and lounging figure in the mouse-
coloured dressing-gown who had prowled so restlessly only a few
hours before round the fog-girt room.
"There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull
indeed not to have understood its possibilities."
"Even now they are dark to me."
"The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which
may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body
was on the ROOF of a carriage."
"On the roof!"
"Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a
coincidence that it is found at the very point where the train
pitches and sways as it comes round on the points? Is not that
the place where an object upon the roof might be expected to fall
off? The points would affect no object inside the train. Either
the body fell from the roof, or a very curious coincidence has
occurred. But now consider the question of the blood. Of
course, there was no bleeding on the line if the body had bled
elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in itself. Together they
have a cumulative force."
"And the ticket, too!" I cried.
"Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This
would explain it. Everything fits together."
"But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from
unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not
simpler but stranger."
"Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed
into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up
at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew
Mycroft's paper from his pocket.
"We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said
he. "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green
lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog
was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A
butler answered our ring.
"Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
morning."
"Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"
"Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother,
Colonel Valentine?"
"Yes, we had best do so."
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant
later we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man
of fifty, the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild
eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden
blow which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly
articulate as he spoke of it.
"It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James,
was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such
an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the
efficiency of his department, and this was a crushing blow."
"We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
would have helped us to clear the matter up."
"I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you
and to all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the
disposal of the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan
West was guilty. But all the rest was inconceivable."
"You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"
"I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes,
that we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to
hasten this interview to an end."
"This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when
we had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or
whether the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may
it be taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We
must leave that question to the future. Now we shall turn to the
Cadogan Wests."
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town
sheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with
grief to be of any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced
young lady, who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the
fiancee of the dead man, and the last to see him upon that fatal
night.
"I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an
eye since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and
day, what the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most
single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would
have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret
confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous
to anyone who knew him."
"But the facts, Miss Westbury?"
"Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."
"Was he in any want of money?"
"No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had
saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."
"No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
absolutely frank with us."
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her
manner. She coloured and hesitated.
"Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was
something on his mind."
"For long?"
"Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried.
Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that there was
something, and that it was concerned with his official life. 'It
is too serious for me to speak about, even to you,' said he. I
could get nothing more."
Holmes looked grave.
"Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go
on. We cannot say what it may lead to."
"Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to
me that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke
one evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some
recollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a
great deal to have it."
My friend's face grew graver still.
"Anything else?"
"He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be
easy for a traitor to get the plans."
"Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"
"Yes, quite recently."
"Now tell us of that last evening."
"We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab
was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office.
Suddenly he darted away into the fog."
"Without a word?"
"He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never
returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office
opened, they came to inquire. About twelve o'clock we heard the
terrible news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his
honour! It was so much to him."
Holmes shook his head sadly.
"Come, Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next
station must be the office from which the papers were taken.
"It was black enough before against this young man, but our
inquiries make it blacker," he remarked as the cab lumbered off.
"His coming marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally
wanted money. The idea was in his head, since he spoke about it.
He nearly made the girl an accomplice in the treason by telling
her his plans. It is all very bad."
"But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again,
why should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to
commit a felony?"
"Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a
formidable case which they have to meet."
Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
received us with that respect which my companion's card always
commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age,
his cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous
strain to which he had been subjected.
"It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of
the chief?"
"We have just come from his house."
"The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead,
our papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday
evening, we were as efficient an office as any in the government
service. Good God, it's dreadful to think of! That West, of all
men, should have done such a thing!"
"You are sure of his guilt, then?"
"I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted
him as I trust myself."
"At what hour was the office closed on Monday?"
"At five."
"Did you close it?"
"I am always the last man out."
"Where were the plans?"
"In that safe. I put them there myself."
"Is there no watchman to the building?"
"There is, but he has other departments to look after as well.
He is an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing
that evening. Of course the fog was very thick."
"Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the
building after hours; he would need three keys, would he not,
before the could reach the papers?"
"Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the
office, and the key of the safe."
"Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?"
"I had no keys of the doors--only of the safe."
"Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?"
"Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them
there."
"And that ring went with him to London?"
"He said so."
"And your key never left your possession?"
"Never."
"Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And
yet none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk
in this office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply
to copy the plans for himself than to take the originals, as was
actually done?"
"It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans
in an effective way."
"But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that
technical knowledge?"
"No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into the
matter, Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this
way when the original plans were actually found on West?"
"Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of
taking originals if he could safely have taken copies, which
would have equally served his turn."
"Singular, no doubt--and yet he did so."
"Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now
there are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand,
the vital ones."
"Yes, that is so."
"Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
submarine?"
"I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have
been over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The
double valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn
in one of the papers which have been returned. Until the
foreigners had invented that for themselves they could not make
the boat. Of course they might soon get over the difficulty."
"But the three missing drawings are the most important?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round
the premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired
to ask."
He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and
finally the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we
were on the lawn outside that his interest was strongly excited.
There was a laurel bush outside the window, and several of the
branches bore signs of having been twisted or snapped. He
examined them carefully with his lens, and then some dim and
vague marks upon the earth beneath. Finally he asked the chief
clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me that
they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for
anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.
"The indications are ruined by three days' delay. They may mean
something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich
can help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered.
Let us see if we can do better in London."
Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left
Woolwich Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say
with confidence that he saw Cadogan West--whom he knew well by
sight--upon the Monday night, and that he went to London by the
8:15 to London Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-
class ticket. The clerk was struck at the time by his excited
and nervous manner. So shaky was he that he could hardly pick up
his change, and the clerk had helped him with it. A reference to
the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train which it
was possible for West to take after he had left the lady about
7:30.
"Let us reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of
silence. "I am not aware that in all our joint researches we
have ever had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every
fresh advance which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond.
And yet we have surely made some appreciable progress.
"The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been
against young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window
would lend themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us
suppose, for example, that he had been approached by some foreign
agent. It might have been done under such pledges as would have
prevented him from speaking of it, and yet would have affected
his thoughts in the direction indicated by his remarks to his
fiancee. Very good. We will now suppose that as he went to the
theatre with the young lady he suddenly, in the fog, caught a
glimpse of this same agent going in the direction of the office.
He was an impetuous man, quick in his decisions. Everything gave
way to his duty. He followed the man, reached the window, saw
the abstraction of the documents, and pursued the thief. In this
way we get over the objection that no one would take originals
when he could make copies. This outsider had to take originals.
So far it holds together."
"What is the next step?"
"Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under
such circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be
to seize the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so?
Could it have been an official superior who took the papers?
That would explain West's conduct. Or could the chief have given
West the slip in the fog, and West started at once to London to
head him off from his own rooms, presuming that he knew where the
rooms were? The call must have been very pressing, since he left
his girl standing in the fog and made no effort to communicate
with her. Our scent runs cold here, and there is a vast gap
between either hypothesis and the laying of West's body, with
seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train.
My instinct now is to work form the other end. If Mycroft has
given us the list of addresses we may be able to pick our man and
follow two tracks instead of one."
Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and
threw it over to me.
There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13
Great George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden
Mansions, Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens,
Kensington. The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is
now reported as having left. Glad to hear you have seen some
light. The Cabinet awaits your final report with the utmost
anxiety. Urgent representations have arrived from the very
highest quarter. The whole force of the State is at your back if
you should need it.
Mycroft.
"I'm afraid," said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen's horses
and all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter." He had
spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it.
"Well, well," said he presently with an exclamation of
satisfaction, "things are turning a little in our direction at
last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe that we are going to
pull it off, after all." He slapped me on the shoulder with a
sudden burst of hilarity. "I am going out now. It is only a
reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the
odds are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time
hangs heavy get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of
how we saved the State."
I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew
well that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of
demeanour unless there was good cause for exultation. All the
long November evening I waited, filled with impatience for his
return. At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a
messenger with a note:
Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a
dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
S.H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry
through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all
discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the address
given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the door
of the garish Italian restaurant.
"Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and
curacao. Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less
poisonous than one would expect. Have you the tools?"
"They are here, in my overcoat."
"Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done,
with some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be
evident to you, Watson, that this young man's body was PLACED on
the roof of the train. That was clear from the instant that I
determined the fact that it was from the roof, and not from a
carriage, that he had fallen."
"Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?"
"I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you
will find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing
round them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan
West was placed on it."
"How could he be placed there?"
"That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of
tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory
that as I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows
just above my head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such
a window, would there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the
roof?"
"It seems most improbable."
"We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be
the truth. Here all other contingencies HAVE failed. When I
found that the leading international agent, who had just left
London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the
Underground, I was so pleased that you were a little astonished
at my sudden frivolity."
"Oh, that was it, was it?"
"Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens,
had become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester
Road Station, where a very helpful official walked with me along
the track and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the
back-stair windows of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the
even more essential fact that, owing to the intersection of one
of the larger railways, the Underground trains are frequently
held motionless for some minutes at that very spot."
"Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!"
"So far--so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar.
Well, having seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the
front and satisfied myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is
a considerable house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in
the upper rooms. Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who
was probably a confederate entirely in his confidence. We must
bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose
of his booty, but not with any idea of flight; for he had no
reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur domiciliary
visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely
what we are about to make."
"Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?"
"Hardly on the evidence."
"What can we hope to do?"
"We cannot tell what correspondence may be there."
"I don't like it, Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the
criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of
Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person
who waits for news. We are bound to go."
My answer was to rise from the table.
"You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
"I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a
moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness
than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful,
practical self once more.
"It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,"
said he. "Don't drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a
suspicious character would be a most unfortunate complication."
Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared,
and porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the
middle Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door
there appeared to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of
young voices and the clatter of a piano resounded through the
night. The fog still hung about and screened us with its
friendly shade. Holmes had lit his lantern and flashed it upon
the massive door.
"This is a serious proposition," said he. "It is certainly
bolted as well as locked. We would do better in the area. There
is an excellent archway down yonder in case a too zealous
policeman should intrude. Give me a hand, Watson, and I'll do
the same for you."
A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached
the dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in
the fog above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work
upon the lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a
sharp crash it flew open. We sprang through into the dark
passage, closing the area door behind us. Holmes let the way up
the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of yellow light
shone upon a low window.
"Here we are, Watson--this must be the one." He threw it open,
and as he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily
into a loud roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness.
Holmes swept his light along the window-sill. It was thickly
coated with soot from the passing engines, but the black surface
was blurred and rubbed in places.
"You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark." He was
pointing to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the
window. "Here it is on the stone of the stair also. The
demonstration is complete. Let us stay here until a train
stops."
We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the
tunnel as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a
creaking of brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not
four feet from the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages.
Holmes softly closed the window.
"So far we are justified," said he. "What do you think of it,
Watson?"
"A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height."
"I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived
the idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a
very abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not
for the grave interests involved the affair up to this point
would be insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us.
But perhaps we may find something here which may help us."
We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms
upon the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished
and containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom,
which also drew blank. The remaining room appeared more
promising, and my companion settled down to a systematic
examination. It was littered with books and papers, and was
evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically Holmes
turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard
after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his
austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when
he started.
"The cunning dog has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left
nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has
been destroyed or removed. This is our last chance."
It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk.
Holmes pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper
were within, covered with figures and calculations, without any
note to show to what they referred. The recurring words, "water
pressure" and "pressure to the square inch" suggested some
possible relation to a submarine. Holmes tossed them all
impatiently aside. There only remained an envelope with some
small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out on the table,
and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had been
raised.
"What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this? Record of a series of
messages in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony
column by the print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page.
No dates--but messages arrange themselves. This must be the
first:
"Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address
given on card.
"Pierrot.
"Next comes:
"Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff
awaits you when goods delivered.
"Pierrot.
"Then comes:
"Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed.
Make appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.
"Pierrot.
"Finally:
"Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be
so suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.
"Pierrot.
"A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the
man at the other end!" He sat lost in thought, tapping his
fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet.
"Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all. There is
nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive
round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good
day's work to a conclusion."
Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head
over our confessed burglary.
"We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these
days you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend
in trouble."
"For England, home and beauty--eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar
of our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?"
"Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of
it?"
Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.
"Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?"
"What? Another one?"
"Yes, here it is:
"To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally
important. Your own safety at stake.
"Pierrot.
"By George!" cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we've got him!"
"That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both
make it convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to
Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a
solution."
One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was
his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all
his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced
himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember
that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a
monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of
Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment,
and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The
great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high
quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were
trying--all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to
me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our
expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the
outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein's
house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary
for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to
climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine
o'clock we were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our
man.
An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured
beat of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our
hopes. Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and
looking twice a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and
composed, his eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert.
He raised his head with a sudden jerk.
"He is coming," said he.
There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned.
We heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with
the knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas
in the hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door,
and then as a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened
it. "This way!" we heard him say, and a moment later our man
stood before us. Holmes had followed him closely, and as the man
turned with a cry of surprise and alarm he caught him by the
collar and threw him back into the room. Before our prisoner had
recovered his balance the door was shut and Holmes standing with
his back against it. The man glared round him, staggered, and
fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed
hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped sown from his lips,
and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome
delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.
Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.
"You can write me down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This
was not the bird that I was looking for."
"Who is he?" asked Mycroft eagerly.
"The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of
the Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards.
He is coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination
to me."
We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner
sat up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed
his hand over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own
senses.
"What is this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."
"Everything is known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an
English gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my
comprehension. But your whole correspondence and relations with
Oberstein are within our knowledge. So also are the
circumstances connected with the death of young Cadogan West.
Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit for
repentance and confession, since there are still some details
which we can only learn from your lips."
The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but
he was silent.
"I can assure you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already
known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered
into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters
through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are
aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday
night, but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West,
who had probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw
your theft, but could not give the alarm, as it was just possible
that you were taking the papers to your brother in London.
Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that he
was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels
until you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then
it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the more
terrible crime of murder."
"I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!"
cried our wretched prisoner.
"Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him
upon the roof of a railway carriage."
"I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess
it. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be
paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five
thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I
am as innocent as you."
"What happened, then?"
"He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you
describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door. It was
thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I had given two
taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The young man rushed up
and demanded to know what we were about to do with the papers.
Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He always carried it with
him. As West forced his way after us into the house Oberstein
struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead
within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at
our wit's end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the
trains which halted under his back window. But first he examined
the papers which I had brought. He said that three of them were
essential, and that he must keep them. 'You cannot keep them,'
said I. 'There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
not returned.' 'I must keep them,' said he, 'for they are so
technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.'
'Then they must all go back together to-night,' said I. He
thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it.
'Three I will keep,' said he. 'The others we will stuff into the
pocket of this young man. When he is found the whole business
will assuredly be put to his account.' I could see no other way
out of it, so we did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at
the window before a train stopped. It was so thick that nothing
could be seen, and we had no difficulty in lowering West's body
on to the train. That was the end of the matter so far as I was
concerned."
"And your brother?"
"He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I
think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected.
As you know, he never held up his head again."
There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.
"Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
possibly your punishment."
"What reparation can I make?"
"Where is Oberstein with the papers?"
"I do not know."
"Did he give you no address?"
"He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would
eventually reach him."
"Then reparation is still within your power," said Sherlock
Holmes.
"I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-
will. He has been my ruin and my downfall."
"Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my
dictation. Direct the envelope to the address given. That is
right. Now the letter:
"Dear Sir:
"With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed
by now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing
which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra
trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance of
five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I
take anything but gold or notes. I would come to you abroad, but
it would excite remark if I left the country at present.
Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of the
Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only
English notes, or gold, will be taken.
"That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it
does not fetch our man."
And it did! It is a matter of history--that secret history of a
nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than
its public chronicles--that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup
of his lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for
fifteen years in a British prison. In his trunk were found the
invaluable Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for
auction in all the naval centres of Europe.
Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year
of his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his
monograph upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since
been printed for private circulation, and is said by experts to
be the last word upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I
learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor,
whence be returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When
I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a
present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had
once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He
said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at that lady's
august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin will
forever recall to my friend's memory the adventure of the Bruce-
Partington plans.
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