“Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius.”
He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung open
the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered into the
room.
Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec MacDonald
was far from having attained the national fame which he has now
achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective force, who
had distinguished himself in several cases which had been intrusted
to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional physical
strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no
less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled out from behind his
bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with a dour nature and a
hard Aberdonian accent.
Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain success,
his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For
this reason the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his amateur
colleague were profound, and he showed them by the frankness with which
he consulted Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows nothing higher
than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius, and MacDonald had
talent enough for his profession to enable him to perceive that there
was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of one who already stood
alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his experience. Holmes was
not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant of the big Scotchman, and
smiled at the sight of him.
"You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with your
worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."
"If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the truth,
I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a knowing grin.
"Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill. No, I won't
smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be pushing on my way; for the early
hours of a case are the precious ones, as no man knows better than your
own self. But--but--"
The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look of
absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon
which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.
“I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely”
I want one
boy to be at Mordecai Smith’s landing-stage opposite Millbank to say if
the boat comes back. You must divide it out among yourselves, and do
both banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you have news. Is that
all clear?”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
Here’s a day in advance. Now off you go!” He handed them a shilling
each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.
“If the launch is above water they will find her,” said Holmes, as he
rose from the table and lit his pipe. “They can go everywhere, see
everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
they have spotted her. In the meanwhile, we can do nothing but await
results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
_Aurora_ or Mr. Mordecai Smith.”
“Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
Holmes?”
“No; I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
must, I should think, be absolutely unique.”
“That other man again!”
“I have no wish to make a mystery of him,—to you, anyway. But you must
have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data. Diminutive
footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet, stone-headed
wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What do you make of
all this?”
“A savage!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
associates of Jonathan Small.”
“Hardly that,” said he. “When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the footmarks
caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the Indian
Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as that.
The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet.
“Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure, fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love prosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honored by a maidens love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can hope for.”
"That is very fairly set forth," said Sir Nigel, nodding his bald head
as each sentence was read to him. "And for thyself, Alleyne, if there be
any dear friend to whom you would fain give greeting, I can send it for
thee within this packet."
"There is none," said Alleyne, sadly.
"Have you no kinsfolk, then?"
"None, save my brother."
"Ha! I had forgotten that there was ill blood betwixt you. But are there
none in all England who love thee?"
"None that I dare say so."
"And none whom you love?"
"Nay, I will not say that," said Alleyne.
Sir Nigel shook his head and laughed softly to himself, "I see how it
is with you," he said. "Have I not noted your frequent sighs and vacant
eye? Is she fair?"
"She is indeed," cried Alleyne from his heart, all tingling at this
sudden turn of the talk.
"And good?"
"As an angel."
"And yet she loves you not?"
"Nay, I cannot say that she loves another."
"Then you have hopes?"
"I could not live else."
"Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure,
fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love
prosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honored by a maiden's
love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can
hope for."
"Indeed, my lord, I do so strive," said Alleyne; "but she is so sweet,
so dainty, and of so noble a spirit, that I fear me that I shall never
be worthy of her."
"By thinking so you become worthy. Is she then of noble birth?"
"She is, my lord," faltered Alleyne.
"Of a knightly house?"
"Yes."
"Have a care, Alleyne, have a care!" said Sir Nigel, kindly. "The higher
the steed the greater the fall. Hawk not at that which may be beyond thy
flight."
"My lord, I know little of the ways and usages of the world," cried
Alleyne, "but I would fain ask your rede upon the matter. You have known
my father and my kin: is not my family one of good standing and repute?"
"Beyond all question."
"And yet you warn me that I must not place my love too high."
"Were Minstead yours, Alleyne, then, by St. Paul! I cannot think that
any family in the land would not be proud to take you among them, seeing
that you come of so old a strain. But while the Socman lives----Ha, by
my soul!
“It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important”
”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street—and—”
“What office?”
“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“He slept on the premises.”
“And you don’t know his address?”
“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”
“Where did you address your letters, then?”
“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said
that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were
typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That
will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little
things that he would think of.”
“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of
mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you
remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the
evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and
plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted
glasses against the glare.”
“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned
to France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear,
and that it was a sign of his passion.
“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.”
However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my
own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that
an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
“Get your hat,” he said.
“You wish me to come?”
“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A minute later we were both in
a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and an
Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.
“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I said at
last, interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.
“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before
you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”
“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger;
“this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much
mistaken.”
“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so
from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of
vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here
and there a “To Let” card had developed like a cataract upon the
bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption
of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, and
was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting
apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very
sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge
of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the
high road at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared,
so there was an end to that clue.
“On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill
and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see
that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an
instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then
beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man
had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed
had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled
with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength
causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had
returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his
opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man, and
who was it brought him the coronet?
“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible,
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew
that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained
your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son
allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible
reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent
explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so as the secret
was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that
window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my
conjecture became a certainty.
“And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
without compromising his own family.
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes”
Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his
dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe
between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.
“Caught cold, Watson?” said he.
“No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”
“I suppose it _is_ pretty thick, now that you mention it.”
“Thick! It is intolerable.”
“Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I
perceive.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Am I right?”
“Certainly, but how?”
He laughed at my bewildered expression. “There is a delightful
freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to
exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A
gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns
immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his
boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man
with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not
obvious?”
“Well, it is rather obvious.”
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance
ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?”
“A fixture also.”
“On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”
“In spirit?”
“Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret
to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and
an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to
Stamford’s for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and
my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I
could find my way about.”
“A large-scale map, I presume?”
“Very large.”
He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. “Here you have
the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville
Hall in the middle.”
“With a wood round it?”
“Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that
name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you
perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings
here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr.
“She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with strange, wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark questioning eyes. Nigel kissed the hand that she held out, and all his faith in woman and his reverence came back to him as he looked at her.”
”
Nigel flushed and winced under the words, but he said no more, for his
mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high image of
woman which seemed for a moment to totter on the edge of a fall.
Together in silence, side by side, the little man and the stately
woman, the yellow charger and the white jennet, passed up the sandy
winding track with the gorse and the bracken head-high on either side.
Soon a path branched off through a gateway marked with the boar-heads
of the Buttesthorns, and there was the low widespread house heavily
timbered, loud with the barking of dogs. The ruddy Knight limped forth
with outstretched hand and roaring voice—
“What how, Nigel! Good welcome and all hail! I had thought that you had
given over poor friends like us, now that the King had made so much of
you. The horses, varlets, or my crutch will be across you! Hush,
Lydiard! Down, Pelamon! I can scarce hear my voice for your yelping.
Mary, a cup of wine for young Squire Loring!”
She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with strange,
wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark, questioning eyes. Nigel
kissed the hand that she held out, and all his faith in woman and his
reverence came back to him as he looked at her. Her sister had slipped
behind her and her fair elfish face smiled her forgiveness of Nigel
over Mary’s shoulder.
The Knight of Duplin leaned his weight upon the young man’s arm and
limped his way across the great high-roofed hall to his capacious oaken
chair. “Come, come, the stool, Edith!” he cried. “As God is my help,
that girl’s mind swarms with gallants as a granary with rats. Well,
Nigel, I hear strange tales of your spear-running at Tilford and of the
visit of the King. How seemed he? And my old friend Chandos—many happy
hours in the woodlands have we had together—and Manny too, he was ever
a bold and a hard rider—what news of them all?”
Nigel told to the old Knight all that had occurred, saying little of
his own success and much of his own failure, yet the eyes of the dark
woman burned the brighter as she sat at her tapestry and listened.
Sir John followed the story with a running fire of oaths, prayers,
thumps with his great fist and flourishes of his crutch.
“Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
By the way, since you are interested in these
little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two
of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw
over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open
upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it
said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very
deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of
Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it
means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of
theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from
it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not
be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and
stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”
with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like
our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us
glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume
from his shelves.
“One should always look for a possible alternative and provide against it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”
He sank his face in his hands and trembled
all over.
"Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel."
"That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else you have to
say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence
was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful
issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful. Rooms have been
reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the
village together."
"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as we travelled
back next morning.
"I can see that you are not satisfied."
"Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him.
One should always look for a possible alternative and provide against
it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation."
"What, then, is the alternative?"
"The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
end."
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.
"Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.--Sherlock
Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days.
I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow I trust that
we shall hear the last of it for ever."
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat
down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs.
From the first day I met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.
“I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
less could I do?
“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
free woman, but I could never again be a free man.
“Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.
“Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
worthy to lick!
Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.
But it was essential that they should
use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be
removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I
expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.
“It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do
so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use,” he remarked. “‘_L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout_,’
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
III. A CASE OF IDENTITY
“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the
fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than
anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to
conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If
we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which
are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the
cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through
generations, and leading to the most _outré_ results, it would make all
fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale
and unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough.
We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and
yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor
artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the
magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the
vital essence of the whole matter.
When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
I was able once to
do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend
rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders."
The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited
greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected
upon the face of Mr. Kent.
"I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.
"Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the
carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may perhaps
assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations."
And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and
ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but
systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I
have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I
gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother, in the
study of Colonel Emsworth.
"That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you have
eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains however
improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several
explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until one
or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now apply
this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented to me,
there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or
incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father's mansion.
There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime, or that he
was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that he had some
disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no other
adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against
each other.
"The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime
had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were
some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest
of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him abroad rather
than keep him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a
line of conduct.
My dear Watson, said [Sherlock Holmes], I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate ones self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate ones own powers.
“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, it
seems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar
facility for deduction are due to your own systematic training.”
“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were
country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is
natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is
in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the
sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable
to take the strangest forms.”
“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”
“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than
I do.”
This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such
singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor
public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint that it
was my companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge his brother
as his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.
“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rank
modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be
seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as
much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers.
When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of
observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact
and literal truth.”
“Is he your junior?”
“Seven years my senior.”
“How comes it that he is unknown?”
“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”
“Where, then?”
“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”
I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have
proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.
“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft
one of the queerest men. He’s always there from quarter to five
to twenty to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll
this beautiful evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to
two curiosities.”
Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards
Regent’s Circus.
“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not
use his powers for detective work.
It is a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books which are your very own.
But what we need is a more
general application of the same thing for public and not for private
use, until people understand that a graven thought is as beautiful an
ornament as any graven image, striking through the eye right deep down
into the soul.
However, all this has nothing to do with Macaulay’s glorious lays, save
that when you want some flowers of manliness and patriotism you can
pluck quite a bouquet out of those. I had the good fortune to learn the
Lay of Horatius off by heart when I was a child, and it stamped itself
on my plastic mind, so that even now I can reel off almost the whole of
it. Goldsmith said that in conversation he was like the man who had a
thousand pounds in the bank, but could not compete with the man who had
an actual sixpence in his pocket. So the ballad that you bear in your
mind outweighs the whole bookshelf which waits for reference. But I
want you now to move your eye a little farther down the shelf to the
line of olive-green volumes. That is my edition of Scott. But surely I
must give you a little breathing space before I venture upon them.
II.
It is a great thing to start life with a small number of really good
books which are your very own. You may not appreciate them at first.
You may pine for your novel of crude and unadulterated adventure. You
may, and will, give it the preference when you can. But the dull days
come, and the rainy days come, and always you are driven to fill up the
chinks of your reading with the worthy books which wait so patiently
for your notice. And then suddenly, on a day which marks an epoch in
your life, you understand the difference. You see, like a flash, how
the one stands for nothing, and the other for literature. From that day
onwards you may return to your crudities, but at least you do so with
some standard of comparison in your mind. You can never be the same as
you were before. Then gradually the good thing becomes more dear to
you; it builds itself up with your growing mind; it becomes a part of
your better self, and so, at last, you can look, as I do now, at the
old covers and love them for all that they have meant in the past. Yes,
it was the olive-green line of Scott’s novels which started me on to
rhapsody.
There are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them.
I'll send for
my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.
"Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.... Now," he continued,
turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind
the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close
they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 p.m. postmark. And
yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his
employer and get instructions; he or she--I incline to the latter from
Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered--forms a plan. Black
Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock next morning.
That's quick work, you know."
"But what do they want?"
"Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"
"A retired sea captain, called Ferguson."
"Anything remarkable about him?"
"Not that ever I heard of."
"I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post Office bank.
But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world
without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in
that case, should they want your furniture? You don't happen to have a
Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"
"No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."
"That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they
not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can
surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and
barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know
that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."
"That is how I read it," said I.
"Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"
"Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a
finer point. You have been in this house a year."
"Nearly two."
"All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from
you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.
The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest.
I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly I
remember a group of men, Leonardo, Griggs and others, dragging me from
under the creature's paws. That was my last memory, Mr. Holmes, for
many a weary month. When I came to myself, and saw myself in the
mirror, I cursed that lion--oh, how I cursed him!---not because he had
torn away my beauty, but because he had not torn away my life. I had
but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It
was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by
none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever known should
find me. That was all that was left to me to do--and that is what I
have done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to
die--that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."
We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her
story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with
such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.
"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of Fate are indeed hard to
understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the
world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"
"I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to
feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of the
freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion
had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had left
me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and yet I
could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself, I cared
nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my actual
life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate."
"And he is dead?"
"He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death
in the paper."
"And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most
singular and ingenious part of all your story?"
"I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a
deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that
pool----"
"Well, well, it is of little consequence now.
There is a danger there - a very real danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world become?
In a few words I said what I remembered. Bennett
had taken a manual of Zoology from the shelves. "'Langur,'" he read,
"'the great black-faced monkey of the Himalayan slopes, biggest and
most human of climbing monkeys.' Many details are added. Well, thanks
to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we have traced the evil to
its source."
"The real source," said Holmes, "lies, of course, in that untimely love
affair which gave our impetuous Professor the idea that he could only
gain his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one tries to
rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of
man may revert to the animal if he leaves the straight road of
destiny." He sat musing for a little with the phial in his hand,
looking at the clear liquid within. "When I have written to this man
and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for the poisons
which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it may recur.
Others may find a better way. There is danger there--a very real
danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual,
the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual
would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival
of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world
become?" Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man of
action, sprang from his chair. "I think there is nothing more to be
said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves
easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the
change far more quickly than you. His smell would ensure that. It was
the monkey, not the Professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the
monkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was
a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young
lady's window. There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think we
shall just have time for a cup of tea at the 'Chequers' before we catch
it."
IX
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE
It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional
career should have come to me after my retirement; and be brought, as
it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little
Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life
of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent
amid the gloom of London.
The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
This small clump of buildings
here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has
his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you
see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall,
which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated
here which may be the residence of the naturalist—Stapleton, if I
remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses,
High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict
prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points
extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage
upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to
play it again.”
“It must be a wild place.”
“Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to
have a hand in the affairs of men—”
“Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural
explanation.”
“The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is
whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what
is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr.
Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with
forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of
our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other
hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we’ll shut
that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a singular thing, but
I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of
thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box
to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have
you turned the case over in your mind?”
“Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.”
“What do you make of it?”
“It is very bewildering.”
“It has certainly a character of its own.
You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.”“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting
his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the
present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has
not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As
a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory.
