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A STUDY IN SCARLET
First published in Nov. 1887 as the main part of Beeton’s Christmas Annual. First book edition by Ward, Lock & Co. in July 1888 with illustrations by Charles Doyle, father of ACD. The second edition (1889) was illustrated by George Hutchinson. – The first American edition published by J. B. Lippincott Co. in 1890.
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PART 1 BEING A REPRINT
FROM THE REMINISCENCES
OF MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES IN THE YEAR 1878 I took my degree of
Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and
proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for
surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I
was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as
assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at
the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war
had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my
corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep
in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with
many other officers who were in the same situation as
myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where
I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new
duties.
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Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air–or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, [16] meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Bart’s. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried; “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wineglass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas–an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No–I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I should [17] prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealymouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes–it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”
“Very right too.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford,
introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand
with a strength for which [18] I should hardly have given him
credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, I
perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in
astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself.
“The question now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see
the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I
answered, “but practically– –”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery
for years. Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible
test for blood stains? Come over here now!” He seized me by
the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table
at which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh
blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and
drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette.
“Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of
water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance
of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in
a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to
obtain the characteristic reaction.” As he spoke, he threw
into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops
of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull
mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the
bottom of the glass jar.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking
as delighted as a child with a new toy. “What do you think
of that?”
“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I
remarked.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was very
clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood
corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours
old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or
new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now
walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of
their crimes.”
“Indeed!” I murmured.
“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one
point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has
been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish
stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud
stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That
is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because
there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock
Holmes’s test, and there will no longer be any
difficulty.”
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over
his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by
his imagination.
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked,
considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year.
He would certainly have been hung had this test been in
existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious
Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I
could name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive.”
“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said
Stamford with a laugh. “You might start a paper on those
lines. Call it the ‘Police News of the
Past.’”
“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,”
remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over
the prick on his finger. “I have to be careful,” he
continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with
poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and
I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of
plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting
down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my
direction with his foot. “My friend [19] here wants
to take diggings; and as you were complaining that you could get
no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring
you together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms
with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,”
he said, “which would suit us down to the ground. You
don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I
hope?”
“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I
answered.
“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals
about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy
you?”
“By no means.”
“Let me see–what are my other shortcomings? I get in
the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on
end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me
alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess
now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of
one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull
pup,” I said, “and I object to rows because my nerves
are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am
extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well,
but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin playing in your category of
rows?” he asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A
well-played violin is a treat for the gods–a badly played
one– –”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry
laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as
settled–that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
you.”
“When shall we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go
together and settle everything,” he answered.
“All right–noon exactly,” said I, shaking his
hand.We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked
together towards my hotel.
“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning
upon Stamford, “how the deuce did he know that I had come
from Afghanistan?”
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s
just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many
people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands.
“This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for
bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind is
man,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade
me good-bye.
“You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll
wager he learns more about you than you about him.
Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel,
considerably interested in my new acquaintance.
THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION
WE MET next day as he had arranged, and
inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had
spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of [20] comfortable
bedrooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully
furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in
every way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem
when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the
spot, and we at once entered into possession. That very evening I
moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following
morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in
unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That
done, we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate
ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was
quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for
him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably
breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes
he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the
dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared
to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could
exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and
again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would
lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or
moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have
noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I
might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some
narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole
life forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to
his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very
person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and
so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His
eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of
torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave
his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin,
too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of
determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I
watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical
instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess
how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I
endeavoured to break through the reticence which he showed on all
that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be
it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there
was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing
out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no
friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily
existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little
mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time
in endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a
question, confirmed Stamford’s opinion upon that point.
Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which
might fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized
portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world.
Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within
eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and
minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no
man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless
he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom
[21]
remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens
his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason
for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the
naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise
reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was
ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the
Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth
century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the
sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary fact that I could
hardly realize it.
“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling at my
expression of surprise. “Now that I do know it I shall do
my best to forget it.”
“To forget it!”
“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a
man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and
you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool
takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so
that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out,
or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he
has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful
workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his
brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment,
and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that
that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent.
Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of
knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the
highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing
out the useful ones.”
“But the Solar System!” I protested.
“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted
impatiently: “you say that we go round the sun. If we went
round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me
or to my work.”
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however,
and endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he
would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.
Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would
be useful to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various
points upon which he had shown me that he was exceptionally well
informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down. I could not
help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran in
this way:
| Sherlock Holmes–his limits | |
| 1. | Knowledge of Literature.–Nil. |
| 2. | ” ” Philosophy.–Nil. |
| 3. | ” ” Astronomy.–Nil. |
| 4. | ” ” Politics.–Feeble. |
| 5. | ” ” Botany.–Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening. |
| 6. | Knowledge of Geology.–Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has [22] shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them. |
| 7. | Knowledge of Chemistry.–Profound. |
| 8. | ” ” Anatomy.–Accurate, but unsystematic. |
| 9. | ” ” Sensational Literature.–Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century. |
| 10. | Plays the violin well. |
| 11. | Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman. |
| 12. | Has a good practical knowledge of British law. |
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair. “If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,” I said to myself, “I may as well give up the attempt at once.”
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun
to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was
myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many
acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of
society. There was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed
fellow, who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came
three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl
called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more.
The same afternoon brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking
like a Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited, and
who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my
companion; and on another, a railway porter in his velveteen
uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an
appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the
sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He always
apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. “I
have to use this room as a place of business,” he said,
“and these people are my clients.” Again I had an
opportunity of asking him a point-blank question, and again my
delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me.
I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not
alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to
the subject of his own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember,
that I rose [23] somewhat earlier than usual, and
found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast.
The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my
place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the
unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt
intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the
table and attempted to while away the time with it, while my
companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had
a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye
through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,”
and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by
an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his
way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and
of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the
deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and exaggerated. The
writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or
a glance of an eye, to fathom a man’s inmost thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one
trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as
infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would
his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the
processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
consider him as a necromancer.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a
logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara
without having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is
a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown
a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of
Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long
and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to
attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to
those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the
greatest difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more
elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn
at a glance to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade
or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise
may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches
one where to look and what to look for. By a man’s
finger-nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his
trouser-knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by
his expression, by his shirt-cuffs–by each of these things
a man’s calling is plainly revealed. That all united should
fail to enlighten the competent inquirer in any case is almost
inconceivable.”
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the
magazine down on the table; “I never read such rubbish in
my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my
eggspoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I see that you
have read it since you have marked it. I don’t deny that it
is smartly written. It irritates me, though. It is evidently the
theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little
paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical.
I should like to see him clapped down in a third-class carriage
on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his
fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against
him.”
“You would lose your money,” Holmes remarked calmly.
“As for the article, I wrote it myself.”
“You!”
“Yes; I have a turn both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to
you to be so chimerical, are really [24] extremely
practical–so practical that I depend upon them for my bread
and cheese.”
“And how?” I asked involuntarily.
“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only
one in the world. I’m a consulting detective, if you can
understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of
government detectives and lots of private ones. When these
fellows are at fault, they come to me, and I manage to put them
on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am
generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of
crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance
about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at
your finger ends, it is odd if you can’t unravel the
thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got
himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was
what brought him here.”
“And these other people?”
“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They
are all people who are in trouble about something and want a
little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my
comments, and then I pocket my fee.”
“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without
leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can
make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for
themselves?”
“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and
again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have
to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a
lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which
facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid
down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable to
me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature. You
appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting,
that you had come from Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from
Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly
through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being
conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however.
The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a
medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army
doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is
dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his
wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his
haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He
holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics
could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his
arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The whole train of
thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came
from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”
“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said,
smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe’s Dupin. I
had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of
stories.”
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think
that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he
observed. “Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior
fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends’
thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an
hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial. He had
some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.”
[25]
“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked.
“Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a
detective?”
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was a
miserable bungler,” he said, in an angry voice; “he
had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy.
That book made me positively ill. The question was how to
identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four
hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a textbook
for detectives to teach them what to avoid.”
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had
admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the
window and stood looking out into the busy street. “This
fellow may be very clever,” I said to myself, “but he
is certainly very conceited.”
“There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,”
he said, querulously. “What is the use of having brains in
our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name
famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same
amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime
which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to
detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so
transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through
it.”
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I
thought it best to change the topic.
“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked,
pointing to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was
walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking
anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his
hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.
“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said
Sherlock Holmes.
“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He
knows that I cannot verify his guess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom
we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran
rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice
below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into
the room and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He
little thought of this when he made that random shot. “May
I ask, my lad,” I said, in the blandest voice, “what
your trade may be?”
“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly.
“Uniform away for repairs.”
“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious
glance at my companion.
“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No
answer? Right, sir.”
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and was
gone.
THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY
I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by
this fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion’s
theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased
[26]
wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my
mind, however, that the whole thing was a prearranged episode,
intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have
in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him,
he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the
vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
abstraction.
“How in the world did you deduce that?” I
asked.
“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.
“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of
Marines.”
“I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely;
then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness. You broke the
thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually
were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of
Marines?”
“No, indeed.”
“It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If
you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might
find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact.
Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed
on the back of the fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea.
He had a military carriage, however, and regulation side
whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man with some amount
of self-importance and a certain air of command. You must have
observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A
steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of
him–all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
sergeant.”
“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.
“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought from his
expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and
admiration. “I said just now that there were no criminals.
It appears that I am wrong–look at this!” He threw me
over the note which the commissionaire had brought.
“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this
is terrible!”
“It does seem to be a little out of the common,” he
remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it to me
aloud?”
This is the letter which I read to him,–
- “MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:
- “There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.’ There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinions.
-
- “Yours faithfully,
- “TOBIAS GREGSON.”
“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,”
my friend remarked; “he [27] and
Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and
energetic, but conventional–shockingly so. They have their
knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of
professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if
they are both put upon the scent.”
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on.
“Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” I cried;
“shall I go and order you a cab?”
“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most
incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather–that
is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at
times.”
“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing
for.”
“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I
unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade,
and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an
unofficial personage.”
“But he begs you to help him.”
“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it
to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to
any third person. 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 housetops, 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’s 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.
The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe
of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
[28]
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried
into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing
appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of
nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to
border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and
gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and
the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded
slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which
flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice
he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an
exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps
upon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been coming
and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could
hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive
faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal
which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed
forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion.
“It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “I
have had everything left untouched.”
“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the
pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there
could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn
your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted
this.”
“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the
detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is
here. I had relied upon him to look after this.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
“With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the
ground, there will not be much for a third party to find
out,” he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think
we have done all that can be done,” he answered;
“it’s a queer case, though, and I knew your taste for
such things.”
“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
“No, sir.”
“Nor Lestrade?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let us go and look at the room.” With which
inconsequent remark he strode on into the house followed by
Gregson, whose features expressed his astonishment.
A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right.
One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other
belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the
mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed
him with that subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of
death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the
absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the
walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and
there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing
the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble.
On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle.
The solitary window was so dirty that the [29] light was
hazy and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which
was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my
attention was centred upon the single, grim, motionless figure
which lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes
staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about
forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized,
broad-shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short,
stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat
and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate
collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed
upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms
thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though
his death struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face
there stood an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of
hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This
malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low
forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a
singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased
by his writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in many
forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect
than in that dark, grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of
the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked.
“It beats anything I have seen, and I am no
chicken.”
“There is no clue?” said Gregson.
“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined
it intently. “You are sure that there is no wound?”
he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which
lay all round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
individual–presumably the murderer, if murder has been
committed. It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the
death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you
remember the case, Gregson?”
“No, sir.”
“Read it up–you really should. There is nothing new
under the sun. It has all been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his
eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already
remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made, that one
would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and
then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“No more than was necessary for the purpose of our
examination.”
“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said.
“There is nothing more to be learned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified
eyes.
[30]
“There’s been a woman here,” he cried.
“It’s a woman’s wedding ring.”
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that
that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a
bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.
“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough
before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?”
observed Holmes. “There’s nothing to be learned by
staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”
“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a
litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.
“A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold
Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic
device. Gold pin–bull-dog’s head, with rubies as
eyes. Russian leather cardcase, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No
purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen.
Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’ with
name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf. Two letters–one
addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson.”
“At what address?”
“American Exchange, Strand–to be left till called
for. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to
the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this
unfortunate man was about to return to New York.”
“Have you made any inquiries as to this man
Stangerson?”
“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have
had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men
has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not returned
yet.”
“Have you sent to Cleveland?”
“We telegraphed this morning.”
“How did you word your inquiries?”
“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we
should be glad of any information which could help
us.”
“You did not ask for particulars on any point which
appeared to you to be crucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole
case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”
“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an
offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to
make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room
while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared
upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied
manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a
discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have
been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the
walls.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was
evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a
point against his colleague.
“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room,
the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its
ghastly inmate. “Now, stand there!”
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the
wall.
“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner [31] of the room a large piece had peeled
off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this
bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single
word–
RACHE
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,
with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. “This was
overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and
no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with
his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down
the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was
that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that
candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was
lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest
portion of the wall.”
“And what does it mean now that you have found
it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time
to finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared
up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do
with it. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is
the best, when all is said and done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who
had ruffled the little man’s temper by bursting into an
explosion of laughter. “You certainly have the credit of
being the first of us to find this out and, as you say, it bears
every mark of having been written by the other participant in
last night’s mystery. I have not had time to examine this
room yet, but with your permission I shall do so
now.”
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he
trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping,
occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So
engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have
forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under
his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of
exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of
encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly
reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes
backward and forward through the covert, whining in its
eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty
minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the
most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely
invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls
in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered
up very carefully a little pile of gray dust from the floor, and
packed it away in an envelope. Finally he examined with his glass
the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the
most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied,
for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking
pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a very
bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.”
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
realize, that Sherlock Holmes’s smallest actions were all
directed towards some definite and practical end.
“What do you think of it, sir?” they both
asked.
“It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I
were to presume to help [32] you,” remarked my friend.
“You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for
anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm in his
voice as he spoke. “If you will let me know how your
investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy
to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to
speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his
name and address?”
Lestrade glanced at his notebook. “John Rance,” he
said. “He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley
Court, Kennington Park Gate.”
Holmes took a note of the address.
“Come along, Doctor,” he said: “we shall go and
look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may help you in
the case,” he continued, turning to the two detectives.
“There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man. He
was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small
feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a
Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a
four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes
and one new one on his off fore-leg. In all probability the
murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right
hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but
they may assist you.”
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous
smile.
“If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked
the former.
“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode
off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning
round at the door: “‘Rache,’ is the German for
‘revenge’; so don’t lose your time looking for
Miss Rachel.”
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open mouthed behind him.
WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL
IT WAS one o’clock when we left No. 3,
Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest
telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then
hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to the address
given us by Lestrade.
“There is nothing like first-hand evidence,” he
remarked; “as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up
upon the case, but still we may as well learn all that is to be
learned.”
“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are
not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which
you gave.”
“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered.
“The very first thing which I observed on arriving there
was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels close to the
curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain for a week, so
that those wheels which left such a deep impression must have
been there during the night. There were the marks of the
horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that
was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and
was not there at any time during the morning–I have
Gregson’s word for that–it follows that it must have
been there during the night, and therefore, that it brought those
two individuals to the house.”
[33]
“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how
about the other man’s height?”
“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be
told from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation
enough, though there is no use my boring you with figures. I had
this fellow’s stride both on the clay outside and on the
dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a
man writes on a wall, his instinct leads him to write above the
level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet
from the ground. It was child’s play.”
“And his age?” I asked.
“Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the
smallest effort, he can’t be quite in the sere and yellow.
That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had
evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and
Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all.
I am simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of
observation and deduction which I advocated in that article. Is
there anything else that puzzles you?”
“The finger-nails and the Trichinopoly,” I
suggested.
“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s
forefinger dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to observe that
the plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not
have been the case if the man’s nail had been trimmed. I
gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in
colour and flaky –such an ash is only made by a
Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes–in
fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter
myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known
brand either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details
that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade
type.”
“And the florid face?” I asked.
“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt
that I was right. You must not ask me that at the present state
of the affair.”
I passed my hand over my brow. “My head is in a
whirl,” I remarked; “the more one thinks of it the
more mysterious it grows. How came these two men– if there
were two men–into an empty house? What has become of the
cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take
poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the
murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the
woman’s ring there? Above all, why should the second man
write up the German word RACHE before decamping? I
confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling all
these facts.”
My companion smiled approvingly.
“You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly
and well,” he said. “There is much that is still
obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts.
As to poor Lestrade’s discovery, it was simply a blind
intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting
Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The
A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion.
Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character, so
that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to
divert inquiry into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell
you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjurer gets no
credit when once he has explained his trick; and if I show you
too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion
that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”
“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have
brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be
brought in this world.”
[34]
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that
he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any
girl could be of her beauty.
“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said.
“Patent-leathers and Square-toes came in the same cab, and
they walked down the pathway together as friendly as
possible–arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got
inside, they walked up and down the room–or rather,
Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down.
I could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he
walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the
increased length of his strides. He was talking all the while,
and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy
occurred. I’ve told you all I know myself now, for the rest
is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis,
however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to
Halle’s concert to hear Norman Neruda this
afternoon.”
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading
its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary
byways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly
came to a stand. “That’s Audley Court in
there,” he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of
dead-coloured brick. “You’ll find me here when you
come back.”
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage
led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid
dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and
through lines of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46,
the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on
which the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we found that the
constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front
parlour to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being
disturbed in his slumbers. “I made my report at the
office,” he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
pensively. “We thought that we should like to hear it all
from your own lips,” he said.
“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,”
the constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden
disc.
“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it
occurred.”
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows, as
though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said.
“My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At
eleven there was a fight at the White Hart; but bar that all was
quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it began to rain,
and I met Harry Murcher–him who has the Holland Grove
beat–and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
Street a-talkin’. Presently–maybe about two or a
little after–I thought I would take a look round and see
that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty
and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab
or two went past me. I was a-strollin’ down, thinkin’
between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be,
when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of
that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston
Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
won’t have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant
what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid fever. I was
knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the
window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the
door– –”
[35]
“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden
gate,” my companion interrupted. “What did you do
that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
utmost amazement upon his features.
“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though
how you come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up
to the door, it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought
I’d be none the worse for someone with me. I ain’t
afeared of anything on this side o’ the grave; but I
thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the typhoid
inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind
o’ turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could
see Murcher’s lantern, but there wasn’t no sign of
him nor of anyone else.”
“There was no one in the street?”
“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I
pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open.
All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was
a-burnin’. There was a candle flickerin’ on the
mantelpiece–a red wax one–and by its light I
saw– –”
“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room
several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you
walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then–
–”
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. “Where was you hid to see all
that?” he cried. “It seems to me that you knows a
deal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the
constable. “Don’t go arresting me for the
murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not the
wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on,
though. What did you do next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mystified
expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my
whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the
spot.”
“Was the street empty then?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good
goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin.
“I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he
said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove.
He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up
ag’in the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch
o’ his lungs about Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or
some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less
help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression.
“He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he
said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in the station if
we hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face–his dress–didn’t you notice
them?” Holmes broke in impatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to
prop him up–me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap,
with a red face, the lower part muffled round–
–”
“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of
him?”
“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after
him,” the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice.
“I’ll wager he found his way home all
right.”
“How was he dressed?”
[36]
“A brown overcoat.”
“Had he a whip in his hand?”
“A whip–no.”
“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion.
“You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after
that?”
“No.”
“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my
companion said, standing up and taking his hat. “I am
afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head
of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have
gained your sergeant’s stripes last night. The man whom you
held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery,
and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now;
I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“The blundering fool!” Holmes said, bitterly, as we
drove back to our lodgings. “Just to think of his having
such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage
of it.”
“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of the second
party in this mystery. But why should he come back to the house
after leaving it? That is not the way of criminals.”
“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for.
If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our
line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor–I’ll lay
you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I
might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest
study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why
shouldn’t we use a little art jargon. There’s the
scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose
every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda.
Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What’s that little
thing of Chopin’s she plays so magnificently:
Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away
like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the
human mind.
OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR
OUR morning’s exertions had been too much
for my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon. After
Holmes’s departure for the concert, I lay down upon the
sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep. It
was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all
that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded
into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the
distorted, baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So
sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me
that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him
who had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features
bespoke vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly
those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that
justice must be [37] done, and that the depravity of the
victim was no condonement in the eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion’s hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned,
appear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no
doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the
idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused this
man’s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which
lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle,
nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an
antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt
that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself.
His quiet, self-confident manner convinced me that he had already
formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it was
I could not for an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning–so late that I knew that the
concert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on
the table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his seat.
“Do you remember what Darwin says about music? He claims
that the power of producing and appreciating it existed among the
human race long before the power of speech was arrived at.
Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are
vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the
world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are
to interpret Nature, ” he answered. “What’s the
matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This Brixton
Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought
to be more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my
own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my
nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which
stimulates the imagination; where there is no imagination there
is no horror. Have you seen the evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not
mention the fact that when the man was raised up a woman’s
wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does
not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I
had one sent to every paper this morning immediately after the
affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place
indicated. It was the first announcement in the
“Found” column. “In Brixton Road, this
morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found
in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove.
Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this
evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I
used my own, some of these dunderheads would recognize it, and
want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing
anyone applies, I have no ring.”
“Oh, yes, you have,” said he, handing me one.
“This will do very well. It is almost a
facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this
advertisement?”
[38]
“Why, the man in the brown coat–our florid friend
with the square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send
an accomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have
every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk
anything than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it
while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at
the time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss and
hurried back, but found the police already in possession, owing
to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend
to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have
been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in
that man’s place. On thinking the matter over, it must have
occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in
the road after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would
eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it
among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should
be connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You
shall see him within an hour.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any
arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few
cartridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a
desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as
well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned
with the pistol, the table had been cleared, and Holmes was
engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon his
violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I
have just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the
case is the correct one.”
“And that is– –?” I asked eagerly.
“My fiddle would be the better for new strings,” he
remarked. “Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow
comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me.
Don’t frighten him by looking at him too hard.”
“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at
my watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the
door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank
you! This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall
yesterday–De Jure inter Gentes–published in
Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’s head was
still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume
was struck off.”
“Who is the printer?”
“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the
flyleaf, in very faded ink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi
Whyte.’ I wonder who William Whyte was. Some pragmatical
seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal
twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes
rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We
heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the
latch as she opened it.
“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but rather
harsh voice. We could not hear the servant’s reply, but the
door closed, and someone began to ascend the stairs. The footfall
was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed
[39]
over the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came
slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the
door.
“Come in,” I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we
expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the
apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of
light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous,
shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had
assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do
to keep my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. “It’s this as has brought me, good
gentlemen,” she said, dropping another curtsey; “a
gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl
Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth, which her
husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he’d say
if he comes ’ome and found her without her ring is more
than I can think, he being short enough at the best o’
times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it please
you, she went to the circus last night along with–
–”
“Is that her ring?” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman;
“Sally will be a glad woman this night. That’s the
ring.”
“And what may your address be?” I inquired, taking up
a pencil.
“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from
here.”
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and
Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her
little red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman asked me for
my address,” she said. “Sally lives in
lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is– –?”
“My name is Sawyer–hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis
married her–and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as
he’s at sea, and no steward in the company more thought of;
but when on shore, what with the women and what with liquor
shops– –”
“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in
obedience to a sign from my companion; “it clearly belongs
to your daughter, and I am glad to be able to restore it to the
rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the
old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the
stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she
was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds
enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow
her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must be an accomplice,
and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” The hall door had
hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the
stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly
along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little
distance behind. “Either his whole theory is
incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or else he will be
led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for
him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was
impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he
might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over
the pages of Henri Murger’s [40] Vie de
Boheme. Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the footsteps
of the maid as she pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more
stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same
destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp
sound of his latchkey. The instant he entered I saw by his face
that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to
be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried
the day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the
world,” he cried, dropping into his chair; “I have
chaffed them so much that they would never have let me hear the
end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be
even with them in the long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she began to limp and
show every sign of being footsore. Presently she came to a halt,
and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to be
close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have been
so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the
other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street,
Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I
thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself
behind. That’s an art which every detective should be an
expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we
reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to
the door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way.
I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open
the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I
reached him, he was groping about frantically in the empty cab,
and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that
ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger,
and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On
inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to a
respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the
name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of
there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement,
“that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to get out
of the cab while it was in motion, without either you or the
driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply.
“We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been
a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an
incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was
followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It
shows that the man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he
was, but has friends who are ready to risk something for him.
Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice and turn
in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long
into the watches of the night I heard the low melancholy wailings
of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the
strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
TOBIAS
GREGSON
SHOWS
WHAT HE
CAN DO
THE papers next day were full of the
“Brixton Mystery,” as they termed it. Each had a long
account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it in addition.
There was some information in them which was new to me. I still
retain in my scrapbook numerous clippings and extracts bearing
upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:
The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of
crime there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger
features. The German name of the victim, the absence of all other
motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed to
its perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists. The
Socialists had many branches in America, and the deceased had, no
doubt, infringed their unwritten laws, and been tracked down by
them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana,
Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory,
the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the
article concluded by admonishing the government and advocating a
closer watch over foreigners in England.
The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless
outrages of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal
administration. They arose from the unsettling of the minds of
the masses, and the consequent weakening of all authority. The
deceased was an American gentleman who had been residing for some
weeks in the metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of
Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was
accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday,
the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed
intention of catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards
seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is known of them
until Mr. Drebber’s body was, as recorded, discovered in an
empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr.
Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it
is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will
speedily throw light upon the matter.
The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to
the crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of
Liberalism which animated the Continental governments had had the
effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might have
made excellent citizens were they not soured by the recollection
of all that they had undergone. Among these men there was a
stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was punished
by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,
Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of
the deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of
the address of the house at which he had boarded–a result
which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson
of Scotland Yard.
[42]
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable
amusement.
“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score.”
“That depends on how it turns out.”
“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If
the man is caught, it will be on account of their
exertions; if he escapes, it will be in spite of their
exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever
they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve
toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.’”
“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment
there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the
stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the
part of our landlady.
“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective
police force,” said my companion gravely; and as he spoke
there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most
ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
“’Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and
the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many
disreputable statuettes. “In future you shall send up
Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait in the
street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”
“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the
youths.
“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you
do. Here are your wages.” He handed each of them a
shilling. “Now, off you go, and come back with a better
report next time.”
He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so
many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the
street.
“There’s more work to be got out of one of those
little beggars than out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes
remarked. “The mere sight of an official-looking person
seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere
and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they
want is organization.”
“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing
them?” I asked.
“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is
merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news
now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with
beatitude written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I
know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!”
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time,
and burst into our sitting-room.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’s
unresponsive hand, “congratulate me! I have made the whole
thing as clear as day.”
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s
expressive face.
“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he
asked.
“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and
key.”
“And his name is?”
“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s
navy,” cried Gregson pompously rubbing his fat hands and
inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into a
smile.
“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said.
“We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have
some whisky and water?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered.
“The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during
the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much [43] bodily
exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You will
appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers.”
“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely.
“Let us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying
result.”
The detective seated himself in the armchair, and puffed
complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in
a paroxysm of amusement.
“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool
Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the
wrong track altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who
had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no
doubt that he has caught him by this time.”
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he
choked.
“And how did you get your clue?”
“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Dr.
Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty
which we had to contend with was the finding of this
American’s antecedents. Some people would have waited until
their advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward
and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson’s
way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead
man?”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and
Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”
Gregson looked quite crestfallen.
“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said.
“Have you been there?”
“No.”
“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you
should never neglect a chance, however small it may
seem.”
“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked
Holmes, sententiously.
“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a
hat of that size and description. He looked over his books, and
came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber,
residing at Charpentier’s Boarding Establishment, Torquay
Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”
“Smart–very smart!” murmured Sherlock
Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued
the detective. “I found her very pale and distressed. Her
daughter was in the room, too–an uncommonly fine girl she
is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her lips trembled
as I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my notice. I began to
smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you
come upon the right scent–a kind of thrill in your nerves.
‘Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late
boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.
“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get out a
word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that
these people knew something of the matter.
“‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your
house for the train?’ I asked.
“‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in
her throat to keep down her agitation. ‘His secretary, Mr.
Stangerson, said that there were two trains– one at 9:15
and one at 11. He was to catch the first.’
“‘And was that the last which you saw of
him?’
“A terrible change came over the woman’s face as I
asked the question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was
some seconds before she could get out the single word
‘Yes’–and when it did come it was in a husky,
unnatural tone.
[44]
“There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter
spoke in a calm, clear voice.
“‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’
she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman. We
did see Mr. Drebber again.’
“‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier,
throwing up her hands and sinking back in her chair. ‘You
have murdered your brother.’
“‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’
the girl answered firmly.
“‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I
said. ‘Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you
do not know how much we know of it.’
“‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother;
and then, turning to me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do not
imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son arises from any
fear lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair. He
is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in your
eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be compromised.
That, however, is surely impossible. His high character, his
profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.’
“‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the
facts,’ I answered. ‘Depend upon it, if your son is
innocent he will be none the worse.’
“‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us
together,’ she said, and her daughter withdrew. ‘Now,
sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of telling
you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have
no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all
without omitting any particular.’
“‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.
“‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He
and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the
Continent. I noticed a Copenhagen label upon each of their
trunks, showing that that had been their last stopping place.
Stangerson was a quiet, reserved man, but his employer, I am
sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits and
brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he became very
much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o’clock
in the day he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners
towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar.
Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my
daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which,
fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion
he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her–an
outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his
unmanly conduct.’
“‘But why did you stand all this?’ I asked.
‘I suppose that you can get rid of your boarders when you
wish.’
“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question.
‘Would to God that I had given him notice on the very day
that he came,’ she said. ‘But it was a sore
temptation. They were paying a pound a day each–fourteen
pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my
boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I
acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I gave
him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his
going.’
“‘Well?’
“‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My
son is on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all
this, for his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond of
his sister. When I closed the door behind them a load seemed to
be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a
ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned. He
was much excited, and evidently the worse for drink. He forced
his way into the room, where I was sitting with my [45] daughter,
and made some incoherent remark about having missed his train. He
then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her
that she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he
said, “and there is no law to stop you. I have money enough
and to spare. Never mind the old girl here, but come along with
me now straight away. You shall live like a princess.” Poor
Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but he
caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the
door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the
room. What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the
confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my
head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway
laughing, with a stick in his hand. “I don’t think
that fine fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I
will just go after him and see what he does with himself.”
With those words he took his hat and started off down the street.
The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious
death.’
“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips
with many gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I
could hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that
she said, however, so that there should be no possibility of a
mistake.”
“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes,
with a yawn. “What happened next?”
“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective
continued, “I saw that the whole case hung upon one point.
Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always found effective
with women, I asked her at what hour her son returned.
“‘I do not know,’ she answered.
“‘Not know?’
“‘No; he has a latchkey, and he let himself
in.’
“‘After you went to bed?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘When did you go to bed?’
“‘About eleven.’
“‘So your son was gone at least two
hours?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Possibly four or five?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘What was he doing during that time?’
“‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white
to her very lips.
“Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I
found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers
with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and
warned him to come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as
brass, ‘I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned
in the death of that scoundrel Drebber,’ he said. We had
said nothing to him about it, so that his alluding to it had a
most suspicious aspect.”
“Very,” said Holmes.
“He still carried the heavy stick which the mother
described him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It was
a stout oak cudgel.”
“What is your theory, then?”
“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them,
in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in
the pit of the stomach perhaps, which killed him without leaving
any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about, so
Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house.
As to the candle, [46] and the blood, and the writing on the
wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the
police on to the wrong scent.”
“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging voice.
“Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make
something of you yet.”
“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather
neatly,” the detective answered, proudly. “The young
man volunteered a statement, in which he said that after
following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him, and took a
cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an old
shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where
this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory
reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What
amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the
wrong scent. I am afraid he won’t make much of it. Why, by
Jove, here’s the very man himself!”
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and
jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress were,
however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his
clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with
the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on
perceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and put
out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously with
his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most
extraordinary case,” he said at last–“a most
incomprehensible affair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson,
triumphantly. “I thought you would come to that conclusion.
Have you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson?”
“The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said
Lestrade, gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s
Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us
was so momentous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly
dumfounded. Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the
remainder of his whisky and water. I stared in silence at
Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn
down over his eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot
thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled
Lestrade, taking a chair. “I seem to have dropped into a
sort of council of war.”
“Are you–are you sure of this piece of
intelligence?” stammered Gregson.
“I have just come from his room,” said Lestrade.
“I was the first to discover what had
occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the
matter,” Holmes observed. “Would you mind letting us
know what you have seen and done?”
“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating
himself. “I freely confess that I was of the opinion that
Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh
development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of
the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the
secretary. They had been [47] seen together at Euston Station about
half-past eight on the evening of the 3rd. At two in the morning
Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which
confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed
between 8:30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of
him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American
boats. I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and
lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that
if Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural
course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the
vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again
next morning.”
“They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place
beforehand,” remarked Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in
making inquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began
very early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s
Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my inquiry as to
whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered
me in the affirmative.
“‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was
expecting,’ they said. ‘He has been waiting for a
gentleman for two days.’
“‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
“‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at
nine.’
“‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I
said.
“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his
nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The boots
volunteered to show me the room: it was on the second floor, and
there was a small corridor leading up to it. The boots pointed
out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I
saw something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty
years’ experience. From under the door there curled a
little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the
passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other
side. I gave a cry, which brought the boots back. He nearly
fainted when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we
put our shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the
room was open, and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the
body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been
for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned
him over, the boots recognized him at once as being the same
gentleman who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph
Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side,
which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest
part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered
man?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming
horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he
said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice;
and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about
the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh
ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on
the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk
boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the
lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He
noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised
against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide
open. After passing, he [48] looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined
him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took
no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that
it was early for him to be at work. He has an impression that the
man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long,
brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little time
after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he
had deliberately wiped his knife.”
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer
which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no
trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
“Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a
clue to the murderer?” he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his
pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he did all the
paying. There was eighty-odd pounds in it, but nothing had been
taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes,
robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or
memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single
telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing
the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name
appended to this message.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with
which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and
his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on
the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box
containing a couple of pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of
delight.
“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case
is complete.”
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“I have now in my hands,” my companion said,
confidently, “all the threads which have formed such a
tangle. There are, of course, details to be filled in, but I am
as certain of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber
parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the
body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I
will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand
upon those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small white
box; “I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending
to have them put in a place of safety at the police station. It
was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to
say that I do not attach any importance to them.”
“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now,
Doctor,” turning to me, “are those ordinary
pills?”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly gray colour,
small, round, and almost transparent against the light.
“From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine
that they are soluble in water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would you
mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier
which has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to
put out of its pain yesterday?”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its
laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far
from its end. Indeed, its snow-white [49] muzzle
proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine
existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said
Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the
word. “One half we return into the box for future purposes.
The other half I will place in this wineglass, in which is a
teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the doctor,
is right, and that it readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in the
injured tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at;
“I cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of
Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that
it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to
make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we
find that he laps it up readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wineglass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked
it dry. Sherlock Holmes’s earnest demeanour had so far
convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal
intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such
appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the
cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither the
better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute
without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and
disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip,
drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other
symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt
sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled
derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had
met.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last
springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room;
“it is impossible that it should be a mere coincidence. The
very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are actually
found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What
can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been
false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the
worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!” With a perfect shriek of
delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two,
dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been
moistened in it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb,
and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been struck by
lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration
from his forehead. “I should have more faith,” he
said; “I ought to know by this time that when a fact
appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it
invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other
interpretation. Of the two pills in that box, one was of the most
deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to
have known that before ever I saw the box at all.”
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling that I
could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was
the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been
correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were
gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague
perception of the truth.
“All this seems strange to you,” continued Holmes,
“because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to
grasp the importance of the single real clue which was presented
to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything
[50]
which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original
supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence
things which have perplexed you and made the case more obscure
have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions. It
is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most
commonplace crime is often the most mysterious, because it
presents no new or special features from which deductions may be
drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult to
unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the
roadway without any of those outré and
sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable.
These strange details, far from making the case more difficult,
have really had the effect of making it less so.”
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
impatience, could contain himself no longer. “Look here,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “we are all ready to
acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own
methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and
preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have
made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier
could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade went
after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.
You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know
more than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have
a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the business.
Can you name the man who did it?”
“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,”
remarked Lestrade. “We have both tried, and we have both
failed. You have remarked more than once since I have been in the
room that you had all the evidence which you require. Surely you
will not withhold it any longer.”
“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed,
“might give him time to perpetrate some fresh
atrocity.”
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his
chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
thought.
“There will be no more murders,” he said at last,
stopping abruptly and facing us. “You can put that
consideration out of the question. You have asked me if I know
the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a
small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands
upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of
managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which
needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man
to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove,
by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has
no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of
securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would
change his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million
inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of
your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men to be
more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have
not asked your assistance. If I fail, I shall, of course, incur
all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for.
At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I can
communicate with you without endangering my own combinations, I
shall do so.”
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective
police. The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen
hair, while the other’s beady eyes glistened with curiosity
and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however,
before there was a tap [51] at the door, and the spokesman of the
street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and
unsavoury person.
“Please, sir,” he said, touching his forelock,
“I have the cab downstairs.”
“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. “Why
don’t you introduce this pattern at Scotland Yard?”
he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer.
“See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an
instant.”
“The old pattern is good enough,” remarked Lestrade,
“if we can only find the man to put them on.”
“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling.
“The cabman may as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him
to step up, Wiggins.”
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were
about to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to
me about it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this
he pulled out and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it
when the cabman entered the room.
“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,” he
said, kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and
put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp
click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his
feet again.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let
me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch
Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”
The whole thing occurred in a moment–so quickly that I
had no time to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that
instant, of Holmes’s triumphant expression and the ring of
his voice, of the cabman’s dazed, savage face, as he glared
at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic
upon his wrists. For a second or two we might have been a group
of statues. Then with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner
wrenched himself free from Holmes’s grasp, and hurled
himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before
him; but before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and
Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was dragged
back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict. So
powerful and so fierce was he that the four of us were shaken off
again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a
man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled
by his passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect
in diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade
succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and
half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles
were of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had
pinioned his feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our
feet breathless and panting.
“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It
will serve to take him to Scotland Yard. And now,
gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we
have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome
to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
danger that I will refuse to answer them.”
PART 2
THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS
ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN
IN THE central portion of the great North
American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which
for many a long year served as a barrier against the advance of
civilization. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the
Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is
a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one
mood throughout this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and
lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are
swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged canons; and there
are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in
summer are gray with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve,
however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality,
and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of
Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to
reach other hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are
glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find
themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among
the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the
clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks
up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These are the
sole dwellers in the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that
from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye
can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over
with patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish
chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long
chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with
snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life,
nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the
steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray
earth–above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one
may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness;
nothing but silence–complete and heart-subduing
silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the
broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra
Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which
winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with
wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and
there there are scattered white objects which glisten in the sun,
and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and
examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse, others
smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and
the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this
[53]
ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those who had
fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of
May, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His
appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or
demon of the region. An observer would have found it difficult to
say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean
and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly
over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were
all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his
head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while the hand which
grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton.
As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet his
tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a
wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his
clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs,
proclaimed what it was that gave him that senile and decrepit
appearance. The man was dying–dying from hunger and from
thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now
the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant
belt of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or
tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that
broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and
west he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized
that his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that
barren crag, he was about to die. “Why not here, as well as
in a feather bed, twenty years hence?” he muttered, as he
seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which he
had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be
somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came
down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly there
broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it
there protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown
eyes, and two little speckled dimpled fists.
“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice,
reproachfully.
“Have I, though?” the man answered penitently;
“I didn’t go for to do it.” As he spoke he
unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of
about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock
with its little linen apron, all bespoke a mother’s care.
The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed
that she had suffered less than her companion.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she was
still rubbing the tousy golden curls which covered the back of
her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect
gravity, showing the injured part up to him. “That’s
what mother used to do. Where’s mother?”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before
long.”
“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she
didn’t say good-bye; she ’most always did if she was
just goin’ over to auntie’s for tea, and now
she’s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry,
ain’t it? Ain’t there no water nor nothing to
eat?”
“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just
need to be patient awhile, and then you’ll be all right.
Put your head up ag’in me like that, and then you’ll
feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like
leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards
lie. What’s that you’ve got?”
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl
enthusiastically, holding up two [54] glittering
fragments of mica. “When we goes back to home I’ll
give them to brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,”
said the man confidently. “You just wait a bit. I was going
to tell you though–you remember when we left the
river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon,
d’ye see. But there was somethin’ wrong; compasses,
or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t turn up. Water
ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you,
and–and– –”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted
his companion gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and
then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones,
and then, dearie, your mother.”
“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little
girl, dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing
bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there
was some chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over
my shoulder and we tramped it together. It don’t seem as
though we’ve improved matters. There’s an almighty
small chance for us now!”
“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the
child, checking her sobs, and raising her tear-stained
face.
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said,
laughing gleefully. “You gave me such a fright. Why, of
course, now as long as we die we’ll be with mother
again.”
“Yes, you will, dearie.”
“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good
you’ve been. I’ll bet she meets us at the door of
heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of buckwheat cakes,
hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How
long will it be first?”
“I don’t know–not very long.” The
man’s eyes were fixed upon the northern horizon. In the
blue vault of the heaven there had appeared three little specks
which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they
approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers,
and then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
buzzards, the vultures of the West, whose coming is the
forerunner of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully,
pointing at their ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to
make them rise. “Say, did God make this
country?”
“Of course He did,” said her companion, rather
startled by this unexpected question.
“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the
Missouri,” the little girl continued. “I guess
somebody else made the country in these parts. It’s not
nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the
trees.”
“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the man
asked diffidently.
“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.
“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but
He won’t mind that, you bet. You say over them ones that
you used to say every night in the wagon when we was on the
plains.”
[55]
“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child
asked, with wondering eyes.
“I disremember them,” he answered. “I
hain’t said none since I was half the height o’ that
gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out, and
I’ll stand by and come in on the choruses.”
“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me
too,” she said, laying the shawl out for that purpose.
“You’ve got to put your hands up like this. It makes
you feel kind of good.”
It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the buzzards
to see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two
wanderers, the little prattling child and the reckless, hardened
adventurer. Her chubby face and his haggard, angular visage were
both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to
that dread Being with whom they were face to face, while the two
voices–the one thin and clear, the other deep and
harsh–united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The
prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the
boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad
breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days
and three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose.
Slowly the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk
lower and lower upon the breast, until the man’s grizzled
beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion, and both
slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-hour a strange
sight would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of
the alkali plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very
slight at first, and hardly to be distinguished from the mists of
the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until it
formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to
increase in size until it became evident that it could only be
raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile
spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one of
those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was
approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid
wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff
upon which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered
tilts of wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show
up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being
a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a
caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the
mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, wagons
and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women
who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled
beside the wagons or peeped out from under the white coverings.
This was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather
some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of
circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose
through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from
this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the
neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to
rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave,
iron-faced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a
short council among themselves.
“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said one,
a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
[56]
“To the right of the Sierra Blanco–so we shall reach
the Rio Grande,” said another.
“Fear not for water,” cried a third. “He who
could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen
people.”
“Amen! amen!” responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest
and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the
rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a little
wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright against the gray rocks
behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of horses and
unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to
reinforce the vanguard. The word “Redskins” was on
every lip.
“There can’t be any number of Injuns here,”
said the elderly man who appeared to be in command. “We
have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we
cross the great mountains.”
“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?”
asked one of the band.
“And I,” “And I,” cried a dozen
voices.
“Leave your horses below and we will await you here,”
the elder answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted,
fastened their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope
which led up to the object which had excited their curiosity.
They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and
dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below
could see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood
out against the sky-line. The young man who had first given the
alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up
his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on joining
him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met
their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall
man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive
thinness. His placid face and regular breathing showed that he
was fast asleep. Beside him lay a child, with her round white
arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head
resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips
were parted, showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within,
and a playful smile played over her infantile features. Her plump
little white legs, terminating in white socks and neat shoes with
shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long
shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above
this strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at
the sight of the newcomers, uttered raucous screams of
disappointment and flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared
about them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and
looked down upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep
had overtaken him, and which was now traversed by this enormous
body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an expression of
incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his
eyes. “This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he
muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of
his coat, and said nothing, but looked all round her with the
wondering, questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two
castaways that their appearance was no delusion. One of them
seized the little girl and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while
two others supported her gaunt companion, and assisted him
towards the wagons.
[57] “My name is John
Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little
un are all that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest
is all dead o’ thirst and hunger away down in the
south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly;
“she’s mine ’cause I saved her. No man will
take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who
are you, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at
his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; “there seems to be a
powerful lot of ye.”
“Nigh unto ten thousand,” said one of the young men;
“we are the persecuted children of God–the chosen of
the Angel Moroni.”
“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer.
“He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye.”
“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the
other, sternly. “We are of those who believe in those
sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates of beaten
gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We
have come from Nauvoo, in the state of Illinois, where we had
founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the
violent man and from the godless, even though it be the heart of
the desert.”
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John
Ferrier. “I see,” he said; “you are the
Mormons.”
“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with
one voice.
“And where are you going?”
“We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the
person of our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say
what is to be done with you.”
They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims–pale-faced,
meek-looking women; strong, laughing children; and anxious,
earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment and of
commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth
of one of the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their
escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great
crowd of Mormons, until they reached a wagon, which was
conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and
smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas
the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece.
Beside the driver there sat a man who could not have been more
than thirty years of age, but whose massive head and resolute
expression marked him as a leader. He was reading a brown-backed
volume, but as the crowd approached he laid it aside, and
listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned
to the two castaways.
“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words,
“it can only be as believers in our own creed. We shall
have no wolves in our fold. Better far that your bones should
bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove to be that
little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit.
Will you come with us on these terms?”
“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said
Ferrier, with such emphasis that the grave Elders could not
restrain a smile. The leader alone retained his stern, impressive
expression.
“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give
him food and drink, and the child likewise. Let it be your task
also to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough.
Forward! On, on to Zion!”
“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the
words rippled down [58] the long caravan, passing from mouth
to mouth until they died away in a dull murmur in the far
distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the
great wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was
winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs
had been committed led them to his wagon, where a meal was
already awaiting them.
“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few
days you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime,
remember that now and forever you are of our religion. Brigham
Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph
Smith, which is the voice of God.”
THE FLOWER OF UTAH
THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials
and privations endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came
to their final haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the
western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with
a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and
the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and
disease–every impediment which Nature could place in the
way–had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet
the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken the
hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not
sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned
from the lips of their leader that this was the promised land,
and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as
well as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in
which the future city was sketched out. All around farms were
apportioned and allotted in proportion to the standing of each
individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to
his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up as if by
magic. In the country there was draining and hedging, planting
and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole country golden
with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange
settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in
the centre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the
first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the
clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw were never absent
from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had led
them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl, who had
shared his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter,
accompanied the Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage.
Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in Elder
Stangerson’s wagon, a retreat which she shared with the
Mormon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong,
forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of
childhood, from the shock caused by her mother’s death, she
soon became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this
new life in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime
Ferrier having recovered from his privations, distinguished
himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly
did he gain the esteem of his new companions, that when they
reached [59] the end of their wanderings, it was
unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as large and
as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with the
exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a
substantial log-house, which received so many additions in
succeeding years that it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of
a practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings and skilful with
his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and
evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came about
that his farm and all that belonged to him prospered exceedingly.
In three years he was better off than his neighbours, in six he
was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve there were not
half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who could compare
with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wasatch
Mountains there was no name better known than that of John
Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the
susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or
persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female establishment
after the manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for
this persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and
inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some who
accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others
who put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur
expense. Others, again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a
fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the
Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly
celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the religion of
the young settlement, and gained the name of being an orthodox
and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her
adopted father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the
mountains and the balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place
of nurse and mother to the young girl. As year succeeded to year
she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more ruddy and her step
more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high road which ran by
Ferrier’s farm felt long-forgotten thoughts revive in his
mind as he watched her lithe, girlish figure tripping through the
wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang,
and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of
the West. So the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which
saw her father the richest of the farmers left her as fair a
specimen of American girlhood as could be found in the whole
Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the
child had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases.
That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be
measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it
until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart
thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and
of fear, that a new and a larger nature has awakened within her.
There are few who cannot recall that day and remember the one
little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the
case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself,
apart from its future influence on her destiny and that of many
besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as
busy as the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In
the fields and in the streets rose the same hum of human
industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long streams of
heavily laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever
had [60] broken out in California, and the
overland route lay through the city of the Elect. There, too,
were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying
pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses
equally weary of their interminable journey. Through all this
motley assemblage, threading her way with the skill of an
accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face
flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out
behind her. She had a commission from her father in the city, and
was dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the
fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was
to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers gazed after her
in astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in
with their peltries, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they
marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it,
however, before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found
herself completely embedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed,
long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle,
she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every
opportunity to urge her horse on, in the hopes of pushing her way
through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the
creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact
with the flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an
instant it reared up upon its hind legs with a snort of rage, and
pranced and tossed in a way that would have unseated any but a
skilful rider. The situation was full of peril. Every plunge of
the excited horse brought it against the horns again, and goaded
it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could do to keep
herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death
under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals.
Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and
her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of
dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might
have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice at
her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.
“You’re not hurt, I hope, miss,” said her
preserver, respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily.
“I’m awful frightened,” she said, naively;
“whoever would have thought that Poncho would have been so
scared by a lot of cows?”
“Thank God, you kept your seat,” the other said,
earnestly. He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on
a powerful roan horse, and clad in the rough dress of a hunter,
with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. “I guess you
are the daughter of John Ferrier,” he remarked; “I
saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he
remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he’s the
same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick.”
“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she
asked, demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark
eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I’ll do so,” he
said; “we’ve been in the mountains for two months,
and are not over and above in visiting condition. He must take us
as he finds us.”
“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,”
she answered; “he’s [61] awful fond
of me. If those cows had jumped on me he’d have never got
over it.”
“Neither would I,” said her companion.
“You! Well, I don’t see that it would make much
matter to you, anyhow. You ain’t even a friend of
ours.”
The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy over this
remark that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.
“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said;
“of course, you are a friend now. You must come and see us.
Now I must push along, or father won’t trust me with his
business any more. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad sombrero,
and bending over her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round,
gave it a cut with her riding-whip, and darted away down the
broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.
Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains
prospecting for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in
the hope of raising capital enough to work some lodes which they
had discovered. He had been as keen as any of them upon the
business until this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into
another channel. The sight of the fair young girl, as frank and
wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic,
untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from his
sight, he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that
neither silver speculations nor any other questions could ever be
of such importance to him as this new and all-absorbing one. The
love which had sprung up in his heart was not the sudden,
changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce passion of
a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been accustomed
to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart that
he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
could render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until
his face was a familiar one at the farmhouse. John, cooped up in
the valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of
learning the news of the outside world during the last twelve
years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a
style which interested Lucy as well as her father. He had been a
pioneer in California, and could narrate many a strange tale of
fortunes made and fortunes lost in those wild, halcyon days. He
had been a scout too, and a trapper, a silver explorer, and a
ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be had, Jefferson
Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a favourite
with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On such
occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her
bright, happy eyes showed only too clearly that her young heart
was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the
man who had won her affections.
One summer evening he came galloping down the road and pulled up
at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him.
He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the
pathway.
“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands in
his, and gazing tenderly down into her face: “I won’t
ask you to come with me now, but will you be ready to come when I
am here again?”
“And when will that be?” she asked, blushing and
laughing.
“A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim
you then, my darling. There’s no one who can stand between
us.”
“And how about father?” she asked.
[62]
“He has given his consent, provided we get these mines
working all right. I have no fear on that head.”
“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it
all, there’s no more to be said,” she whispered, with
her cheek against his broad breast.
“Thank God!” he said, hoarsely, stooping and
kissing her. “It is settled, then. The longer I stay, the
harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me at the canon.
Good-bye, my own darling–good-bye. In two months you shall
see me.”
He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon
his horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as
though afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one
glance at what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing
after him until he vanished from her sight. Then she walked back
into the house, the happiest girl in all Utah.
JOHN
FERRIER
TALKS WITH THE
PROPHET
THREE weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and
his comrades had departed from Salt Lake City. John
Ferrier’s heart was sore within him when he thought of the
young man’s return, and of the impending loss of his
adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to
the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such
marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon
that one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the
subject, however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a
dangerous matter in those days in the Land of the Saints.
Yes, a dangerous matter–so dangerous that even the most
saintly dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated
breath, lest something which fell from their lips might be
misconstrued, and bring down a swift retribution upon them. The
victims of persecution had now turned persecutors on their own
account, and persecutors of the most terrible description. Not
the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German Vehmgericht, nor the
secret societies of Italy, were ever able to put a more
formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over
the state of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made
this organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient
and omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who
held out against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither
he had gone or what had befallen him. His wife and his children
awaited him at home, but no father ever returned to tell them how
he had fared at the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a
hasty act was followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what
the nature might be of this terrible power which was suspended
over them. No wonder that men went about in fear and trembling,
and that even in the heart of the wilderness they dared not
whisper the doubts which oppressed them.
At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon
the recalcitrants [63] who, having embraced the Mormon
faith, wished afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon,
however, it took a wider range. The supply of adult women was
running short, and polygamy without a female population on which
to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be
bandied about –rumours of murdered immigrants and rifled
camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women
appeared in the harems of the Elders–women who pined and
wept, and bore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable
horror. Belated wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of
armed men, masked, stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them
in the darkness. These tales and rumours took substance and
shape, and were corroborated and recorroborated, until they
resolved themselves into a definite name. To this day, in the
lonely ranches of the West, the name of the Danite Band, or the
Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which
it inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this
ruthless society. The names of the participators in the deeds of
blood and violence done under the name of religion were kept
profoundly secret. The very friend to whom you communicated your
misgivings as to the Prophet and his mission might be one of
those who would come forth at night with fire and sword to exact
a terrible reparation. Hence every man feared his neighbour, and
none spoke of the things which were nearest his heart.
One fine morning John Ferrier was about to set out to his
wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man
coming up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was
none other than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of
trepidation–for he knew that such a visit boded him little
good–Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. The
latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and followed
him with a stern face into the sitting-room.
“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and eyeing
the farmer keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes,
“the true believers have been good friends to you. We
picked you up when you were starving in the desert, we shared our
food with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley, gave you a
goodly share of land, and allowed you to wax rich under our
protection. Is not this so?”
“It is so,” answered John Ferrier.
“In return for all this we asked but one condition: that
was, that you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every
way to its usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common
report says truly, you have neglected.”
“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier,
throwing out his hands in expostulation. “Have I not given
to the common fund? Have I not attended at the Temple? Have I
not– –?”
“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking round
him. “Call them in, that I may greet them.”
“It is true that I have not married,” Ferrier
answered. “But women were few, and there were many who had
better claims than I. I was not a lonely man: I had my daughter
to attend to my wants.”
“It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,”
said the leader of the Mormons. “She has grown to be the
flower of Utah, and has found favour in the eyes of many who are
high in the land.”
[64]
John Ferrier groaned internally.
“There are stories of her which I would fain
disbelieve–stories that she is sealed to some Gentile. This
must be the gossip of idle tongues. What is the thirteenth rule
in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith? ‘Let every maiden
of the true faith marry one of the elect; for if she wed a
Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.’ This being so, it is
impossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer
your daughter to violate it.”
John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
riding-whip.
“Upon this one point your whole faith shall be
tested–so it has been decided in the Sacred Council of
Four. The girl is young, and we would not have her wed gray
hairs, neither would we deprive her of all choice. We Elders have
many heifers,1 but our children must
also be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son,
and either of them would gladly welcome your daughter to his
house. Let her choose between them. They are young and rich, and
of the true faith. What say you to that?”
Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows
knitted.
“You will give us time,” he said at last. “My
daughter is very young– she is scarce of an age to
marry.”
“She shall have a month to choose,” said Young,
rising from his seat. “At the end of that time she shall
give her answer.”
He was passing through the door, when he turned with flushed
face and flashing eyes. “It were better for you, John
Ferrier,” he thundered, “that you and she were now
lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra Blanco, than that you
should put your weak wills against the orders of the Holy
Four!”
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door,
and Ferrier heard his heavy steps scrunching along the shingly
path.
He was still sitting with his elbow upon his knee, considering
how he should broach the matter to his daughter, when a soft hand
was laid upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside
him. One glance at her pale, frightened face showed him that she
had heard what had passed.
“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his
look. “His voice rang through the house. Oh, father,
father, what shall we do?”
“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered,
drawing her to him, and passing his broad, rough hand caressingly
over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it up somehow or
another. You don’t find your fancy kind o’ lessening
for this chap, do you?”
A sob and a squeeze of his hand were her only answer.
“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you say
you did. He’s a likely lad, and he’s a Christian,
which is more than these folks here, in spite o’ all their
praying and preaching. There’s a party starting for Nevada
to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send him a message letting
him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o’ that
young man, he’ll be back with a speed that would whip
electro-telegraphs.”
Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s
description.
“When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is
for you that I am frightened, dear. One hears–one hears
such dreadful stories about those who oppose the Prophet;
something terrible always happens to them.”
“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father
answered. “It will be time to [65] look out
for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at the
end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.”
“Leave Utah!”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“But the farm?”
“We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest
go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the first time I have
thought of doing it. I don’t care about knuckling under to
any man, as these folk do to their darned Prophet. I’m a
free-born American, and it’s all new to me. Guess I’m
too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might
chance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the
opposite direction.”
“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter
objected.
“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage
that. In the meantime, don’t you fret yourself, my dearie,
and don’t get your eyes swelled up, else he’ll be
walking into me when he sees you. There’s nothing to be
afeared about, and there’s no danger at all.”
John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident
tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care
to the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully
cleaned and loaded the rusty old shot-gun which hung upon the
wall of his bedroom.
1 Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred wives under this endearing epithet.
A FLIGHT FOR LIFE
ON THE morning which followed his interview
with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City,
and having found his acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada
Mountains, he entrusted him with his message to Jefferson Hope.
In it he told the young man of the imminent danger which
threatened them, and how necessary it was that he should return.
Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned home
with a lighter heart.
As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse
hitched to each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised
was he on the entering to find two young men in possession of his
sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the
rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other,
a bull-necked youth with coarse, bloated features, was standing
in front of the window with his hands in his pockets whistling a
popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and
the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.
“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This
here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I’m Joseph
Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert when the Lord
stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true
fold.”
“As He will all the nations in His own good time,”
said the other in a nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly but
exceeding small.”
John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors
were.
“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the
advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your daughter for
whichever of us may seem good to you and to her. [66] As I have
but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to
me that my claim is the stronger one.”
“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other;
“the question is not how many wives we have, but how many
we can keep. My father has now given over his mills to me, and I
am the richer man.”
“But my prospects are better,” said the other,
warmly. “When the Lord removes my father, I shall have his
tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I am your elder, and
am higher in the Church.”
“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young
Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the glass. “We
will leave it all to her decision.”
During this dialogue John Ferrier had stood fuming in the
doorway, hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of
his two visitors.
“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them,
“when my daughter summons you, you can come, but until then
I don’t want to see your faces again.”
The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes
this competition between them for the maiden’s hand was the
highest of honours both to her and her father.
“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier;
“there is the door, and there is the window. Which do you
care to use?”
His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so
threatening, that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a
hurried retreat. The old farmer followed them to the door.
“Let me know when you have settled which it is to
be,” he said, sardonically.
“You shall smart for this!” Stangerson cried, white
with rage. “You have defied the Prophet and the Council of
Four. You shall rue it to the end of your days.”
“The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,” cried
young Drebber; “He will arise and smite you!”
“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed
Ferrier, furiously, and would have rushed upstairs for his gun
had not Lucy seized him by the arm and restrained him. Before he
could escape from her, the clatter of horses’ hoofs told
him that they were beyond his reach.
“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead; “I would sooner see you in
your grave, my girl, than the wife of either of
them.”
“And so should I, father,” she answered, with spirit;
“but Jefferson will soon be here.”
“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the
better, for we do not know what their next move may
be.”
It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice
and help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his
adopted daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there
had never been such a case of rank disobedience to the authority
of the Elders. If minor errors were punished so sternly, what
would be the fate of this arch rebel? Ferrier knew that his
wealth and position would be of no avail to him. Others as well
known and as rich as himself had been spirited away before now,
and their goods given over to the Church. He was a brave man, but
he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which hung over him.
Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but this suspense
was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter, however,
and affected to make light [67] of the whole matter, though she, with
the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.
He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance
from Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it
came in an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he
found, to his surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the
coverlet of his bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in
bold, straggling letters:–
“Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and
then– –”
The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been.
How this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely,
for his servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows
had all been secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing
to his daughter, but the incident struck a chill into his heart.
The twenty-nine days were evidently the balance of the month
which Young had promised. What strength or courage could avail
against an enemy armed with such mysterious powers? The hand
which fastened that pin might have struck him to the heart, and
he could never have known who had slain him.
Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
breakfast, when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In
the centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick
apparently, the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible,
and he did not enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun
and kept watch and ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in
the morning a great 27 had been painted upon the outside of his
door.
Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that
his unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in
some conspicuous position how many days were still left to him
out of the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared
upon the walls, sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were
on small placards stuck upon the garden gate or the railings.
With all his vigilance John Ferrier could not discover whence
these daily warnings proceeded. A horror which was almost
superstitious came upon him at the sight of them. He became
haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look of some
hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was
for the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty had changed to fifteen, and fifteen to ten, but there was
no news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down,
and still there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman
clattered down the road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old
farmer hurried to the gate, thinking that help had arrived at
last. At last, when he saw five give way to four and that again
to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of escape.
Singlehanded, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains
which surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless.
The more frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded, and
none could pass along them without an order from the Council.
Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no avoiding the
blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered in his
resolution to part with life itself before he consented to what
he regarded as his daughter’s dishonour.
He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his
troubles, and searching vainly for some way out of them. That
morning had shown the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and
the next day would be the last of the allotted time. What was to
happen then? All manner of vague and terrible fancies filled his
imagination. And his daughter–what was to become of her
after he was gone? [68] Was there no escape from the
invisible network which was drawn all round them? He sank his
head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own
impotence.
What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching
sound–low, but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It
came from the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and
listened intently. There was a pause for a few moments, and then
the low, insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently
tapping very gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it
some midnight assassin who had come to carry out the murderous
orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent who was
marking up that the last day of grace had arrived? John Ferrier
felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which
shook his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward, he
drew the bolt and threw the door open.
Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the
stars were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden
lay before the farmer’s eyes bounded by the fence and gate,
but neither there nor on the road was any human being to be seen.
With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left,
until, happening to glance straight down at his own feet, he saw
to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face upon the
ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.
So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the
wall with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to
call out. His first thought was that the prostrate figure was
that of some wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it
writhe along the ground and into the hall with the rapidity and
noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the house the man sprang
to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the astonished
farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of Jefferson
Hope.
“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you
scared me! Whatever made you come in like that?”
“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I
have had no time for bite or sup for eight-and-forty
hours.” He flung himself upon the cold meat and bread which
were still lying upon the table from his host’s supper, and
devoured it voraciously. “Does Lucy bear up well?” he
asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.
“Yes. She does not know the danger,” her father
answered.
“That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is
why I crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but
they’re not quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe
hunter.”
John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he
had a devoted ally. He seized the young man’s leathery hand
and wrung it cordially. “You’re a man to be proud
of,” he said. “There are not many who would come to
share our danger and our troubles.”
“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter
answered. “I have a respect for you, but if you were alone
in this business I’d think twice before I put my head into
such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy that brings me here,
and before harm comes on her I guess there will be one less
o’ the Hope family in Utah.”
“What are we to do?”
“To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night
you are lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle
Ravine. How much money have you?”
“Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in
notes.”
“That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must
push for Carson City [69] through the mountains. You had best
wake Lucy. It is as well that the servants do not sleep in the
house.”
While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the
approaching journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that
he could find into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar
with water, for he knew by experience that the mountain wells
were few and far between. He had hardly completed his
arrangements before the farmer returned with his daughter all
dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the lovers
was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was
much to be done.
“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson
Hope, speaking in a low but resolute voice, like one who realizes
the greatness of the peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it.
“The front and back entrances are watched, but with caution
we may get away through the side window and across the fields.
Once on the road we are only two miles from the Ravine where the
horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be halfway through the
mountains.”
“What if we are stopped?” asked Ferrier.
Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of
his tunic. “If they are too many for us, we shall take two
or three of them with us,” he said with a sinister
smile.
The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from
the darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been
his own, and which he was now about to abandon forever. He had
long nerved himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of
the honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at
his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the
rustling trees and the broad silent stretch of grainland, that it
was difficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked through
it all. Yet the white face and set expression of the young hunter
showed that in his approach to the house he had seen enough to
satisfy him upon that head.
Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle
containing a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the
window very slowly and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud
had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by one passed
through into the little garden. With bated breath and crouching
figures they stumbled across it, and gained the shelter of the
hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap which opened
into the cornfield. They had just reached this point when the
young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into
the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.
It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope
the ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down
before the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within
a few yards of them, which was immediately answered by another
hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vague, shadowy
figure emerged from the gap for which they had been making, and
uttered the plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man
appeared out of the obscurity.
“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first, who appeared
to be in authority. “When the whippoorwill calls three
times.”
“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell
Brother Drebber?”
“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to
seven!”
“Seven to five!” repeated the other; and the two
figures flitted away in different directions. Their concluding
words had evidently been some form of sign and [70] countersign.
The instant that their footsteps had died away in the distance,
Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his companions
through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top of his
speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength
appeared to fail her.
“Hurry on! hurry on!” he gasped from time to time.
“We are through the line of sentinels. Everything depends
on speed. Hurry on!”
Once on the high road, they made rapid progress. Only once did
they meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and
so avoid recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter
branched away into a rugged and narrow footpath which led to the
mountains. Two dark, jagged peaks loomed above them through the
darkness, and the defile which led between them was the Eagle
Canon in which the horses were awaiting them. With unerring
instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great boulders
and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he came to the
retired corner screened with rocks, where the faithful animals
had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old
Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag, while
Jefferson Hope led the other along the precipitous and dangerous
path.
It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to
face Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag
towered up a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing,
with long basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs
of some petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of
boulders and debris made all advance impossible. Between the two
ran the irregular tracks, so narrow in places that they had to
travel in Indian file, and so rough that only practised riders
could have traversed it at all. Yet, in spite of all dangers and
difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light within them,
for every step increased the distance between them and the
terrible despotism from which they were flying.
They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and
most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled
cry, and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track,
showing out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a
solitary sentinel. He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and
his military challenge of “Who goes there?” rang
through the silent ravine.
“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope, with
his hand upon the rifle which hung by his saddle.
They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering
down at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.
“By whose permission?” he asked.
“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon
experiences had taught him that that was the highest authority to
which he could refer.
“Nine to seven,” cried the sentinel.
“Seven to five,” returned Jefferson Hope promptly,
remembering the countersign which he had heard in the
garden.
“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the voice from
above. Beyond his post the path broadened out, and the horses
were able to break into a trot. Looking back, they could see the
solitary watcher leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had
passed the outlying post of the chosen people, and that freedom
lay before them.
THE AVENGING ANGELS
ALL night their course lay through intricate
defiles and over irregular and rock-strewn paths. More than once
they lost their way, but Hope’s intimate knowledge of the
mountains enabled them to regain the track once more. When
morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage beauty lay
before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks
hemmed them in, peeping over each other’s shoulders to the
far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either side of them
that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon
them. Nor was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren
valley was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which had
fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed, a great rock
came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes
in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a
gallop.
As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the
great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a
festival, until they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent
spectacle cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them
fresh energy. At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine they
called a halt and watered their horses, while they partook of a
hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father would fain have rested
longer, but Jefferson Hope was inexorable. “They will be
upon our track by this time,” he said. “Everything
depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson, we may rest for the
remainder of our lives.”
During the whole of that day they struggled on through the
defiles, and by evening they calculated that they were more than
thirty miles from their enemies. At night-time they chose the
base of a beetling crag, where the rocks offered some protection
from the chill wind, and there, huddled together for warmth, they
enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Before daybreak, however, they
were up and on their way once more. They had seen no signs of any
pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that they were fairly
out of the reach of the terrible organization whose enmity they
had incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could reach,
or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.
About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty
store of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little
uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his
rifle for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled
together a few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which
his companions might warm themselves, for they were now nearly
five thousand feet above the sea level, and the air was bitter
and keen. Having tethered the horses, and bid Lucy adieu, he
threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of
whatever chance might throw in his way. Looking back, he saw the
old man and the young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while
the three animals stood motionless in the background. Then the
intervening rocks hid them from his view.
He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
without [72] success, though, from the marks upon
the bark of the trees, and other indications, he judged that
there were numerous bears in the vicinity. At last, after two or
three hours’ fruitless search, he was thinking of turning
back in despair, when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight
which sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the edge of
a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, there
stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but
armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn–for so it
is called–was acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock
which were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it was
heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him.
Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a
long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang
into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the
precipice, and then came crashing down into the valley
beneath.
The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With
this trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps,
for the evening was already drawing in. He had hardly started,
however, before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In
his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines which were
known to him, and it was no easy matter to pick out the path
which he had taken. The valley in which he found himself divided
and sub-divided into many gorges, which were so like each other
that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. He
followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountain
torrent which he was sure that he had never seen before.
Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he tried another, but
with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly, and it was
almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile which was
familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to the
right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down
with his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along,
keeping up his heart by the reflection that every step brought
him nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure
them food for the remainder of their journey.
He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had
left them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of
the cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting
him anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the
gladness of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and made the
glen reecho to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He
paused and listened for an answer. None came save his own cry,
which clattered up the dreary, silent ravines, and was borne back
to his ears in countless repetitions. Again he shouted, even
louder than before, and again no whisper came back from the
friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless
dread came over him, and he hurried onward frantically, dropping
the precious food in his agitation.
When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot
where the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of
wood ashes there, but it had evidently not been tended since his
departure. The same dead silence still reigned all round. With
his fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on. There was no
living creature near the remains of the fire: animals, man,
maiden, all were gone. It was only too clear that some sudden and
terrible disaster had occurred during his absence–a
disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no traces
behind it.
Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin round, [73] and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:
JOHN
FERRIER,
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY.
Died August 4th, 1860.
The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before,
was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope
looked wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there
was no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible
pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the
harem of an Elder’s son. As the young fellow realized the
certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it,
he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his last
silent resting-place.
Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he
could at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable
patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power
of sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the
Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate
fire, he felt that the only one thing which could assuage his
grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his
own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy
should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim,
white face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the
food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked
enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a bundle,
and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the
mountains upon the track of the Avenging Angels.
For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles
which he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung
himself down among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep;
but before daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth
day, he reached the Eagle Canon, from which they had commenced
their ill-fated flight. Thence he could look down upon the home
of the Saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and
shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent widespread city
beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that there were
flags in some of the principal streets, and other signs of
festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean
when he heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and saw a
mounted man riding towards him. As he approached, he recognized
him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services
[74]
at different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up to
him, with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier’s
fate had been.
“I am Jefferson Hope,” he said. “You remember
me.”
The Mormon looked at him with undisguised
astonishment–indeed, it was difficult to recognize in this
tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly white face and fierce,
wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former days. Having,
however, at last satisfied himself as to his identity, the
man’s surprise changed to consternation.
“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as
much as my own life is worth to be seen talking with you. There
is a warrant against you from the Holy Four for assisting the
Ferriers away.”
“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope
said, earnestly. “You must know something of this matter,
Cowper. I conjure you by everything you hold dear to answer a few
questions. We have always been friends. For God’s sake,
don’t refuse to answer me.”
“What is it?” the Mormon asked, uneasily. “Be
quick. The very rocks have ears and the trees eyes.”
“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”
“She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man,
hold up; you have no life left in you.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was
white to the very lips, and had sunk down on the stone against
which he had been leaning. “Married, you say?”
“Married yesterday–that’s what those flags are
for on the Endowment House. There was some words between young
Drebber and young Stangerson as to which was to have her.
They’d both been in the party that followed them, and
Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the best
claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber’s
party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No
one won’t have her very long though, for I saw death in her
face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you
off, then?”
“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen
from his seat. His face might have been chiselled out of marble,
so hard and set was its expression, while its eyes glowed with a
baleful light.
“Where are you going?”
“Never mind,” he answered; and, slinging his weapon
over his shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the
heart of the mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst
them all there was none so fierce and so dangerous as
himself.
The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether
it was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the
hateful marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never
held up her head again, but pined away and died within a month.
Her sottish husband, who had married her principally for the sake
of John Ferrier’s property, did not affect any great grief
at his bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat
up with her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom.
They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of the
morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the
door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in
tattered garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a
word to the cowering women, he walked up to the white silent
figure which had once contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier.
Stooping over her, he pressed his lips reverently to her cold
forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he took the wedding
ring from her finger. “She [75] shall not
be buried in that,” he cried with a fierce snarl, and
before an alarm could be raised sprang down the stairs and was
gone. So strange and so brief was the episode that the watchers
might have found it hard to believe it themselves or persuade
other people of it, had it not been for the undeniable fact that
the circlet of gold which marked her as having been a bride had
disappeared.
For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains,
leading a strange, wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce
desire for vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the
city of the weird figure which was seen prowling about the
suburbs, and which haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a
bullet whistled through Stangerson’s window and flattened
itself upon the wall within a foot of him. On another occasion,
as Drebber passed under a cliff a great boulder crashed down on
him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing himself
upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in discovering
the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led repeated
expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they
adopted the precaution of never going out alone or after
nightfall, and of having their houses guarded. After a time they
were able to relax these measures, for nothing was either heard
or seen of their opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled
his vindictiveness.
Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The
hunter’s mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the
predominant idea of revenge had taken such complete possession of
it that there was no room for any other emotion. He was, however,
above all things, practical. He soon realized that even his iron
constitution could not stand the incessant strain which he was
putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food were wearing
him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains, what was to
become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to
overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to play his
enemy’s game, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada
mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money enough to
allow him to pursue his object without privation.
His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his
memory of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as
keen as on that memorable night when he had stood by John
Ferrier’s grave. Disguised, and under an assumed name, he
returned to Salt Lake City, careless what became of his own life,
as long as he obtained what he knew to be justice. There he found
evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a schism among the
Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger members of
the Church having rebelled against the authority of the Elders,
and the result had been the secession of a certain number of the
malcontents, who had left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these
had been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had
gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed to convert a large
part of his property into money, and that he had departed a
wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was comparatively
poor. There was no clue at all, however, as to their
whereabouts.
Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought
of revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope
never faltered for a moment. With the small competence he
possessed, eked out by such employment as he could pick up, he
travelled from town to town through the United States in quest
[76]
of his enemies. Year passed into year, his black hair turned
grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human bloodhound, with his
mind wholly set upon the one object to which he had devoted his
life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was but a glance
of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that
Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He
returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all
arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read
murder in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace
accompanied by Stangerson, who had become his private secretary,
and represented to him that they were in danger of their lives
from the jealousy and hatred of an old rival. That evening
Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and not being able to find
sureties, was detained for some weeks. When at last he was
liberated it was only to find that Drebber’s house was
deserted, and that he and his secretary had departed for
Europe.
Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated
hatred urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting,
however, and for some time he had to return to work, saving every
dollar for his approaching journey. At last, having collected
enough to keep life in him, he departed for Europe, and tracked
his enemies from city to city, working his way in any menial
capacity, but never overtaking the fugitives. When he reached St.
Petersburg, they had departed for Paris; and when he followed
them there, he learned that they had just set off for Copenhagen.
At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for they had
journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running
them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better
than quote the old hunter’s own account, as duly recorded
in Dr. Watson’s Journal, to which we are already under such
obligations.
A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.
OUR prisoner’s furious resistance did not
apparently indicate any ferocity in his disposition towards
ourselves, for on finding himself powerless, he smiled in an
affable manner, and expressed his hopes that he had not hurt any
of us in the scuffle. “I guess you’re going to take
me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.
“My cab’s at the door. If you’ll loose my legs
I’ll walk down to it. I’m not so light to lift as I
used to be.”
Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances, as if they thought this
proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the
prisoner at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound
round his ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to
assure himself that they were free once more. I remember that I
thought to myself, as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more
powerfully built man; and his dark, sunburned face bore an
expression of determination and energy which was as formidable as
his personal strength.
“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police,
I reckon you are the man for [77] it,”
he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger.
“The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”
“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to the two
detectives.
“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.
“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too,
Doctor. You have taken an interest in the case, and may as well
stick to us.”
I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner
made no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which
had been his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box,
whipped up the horse, and brought us in a very short time to our
destination. We were ushered into a small chamber, where a police
inspector noted down our prisoner’s name and the names of
the men with whose murder he had been charged. The official was a
white-faced, unemotional man, who went through his duties in a
dull, mechanical way. “The prisoner will be put before the
magistrates in the course of the week,” he said; “in
the meantime, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish
to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and
may be used against you.”
“I’ve got a good deal to say,” our prisoner said slowly. “I want to tell you gentlemen all about it.”
“Hadn’t you better reserve that for your trial?” asked the inspector.
“I may never be tried,” he answered. “You needn’t look startled. It isn’t suicide I am thinking of. Are you a doctor?” He turned his fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.
“Yes, I am,” I answered.
“Then put your hand here,” he said, with a smile, motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.
I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.
“Why,” I cried, “you have an aortic aneurism!”
“That’s what they call it,” he said, placidly. “I went to a doctor last week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from overexposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I’ve done my work now, and I don’t care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some account of the business behind me. I don’t want to be remembered as a common cut-throat.”
The inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.
“Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?” the former asked.
“Most certainly there is,” I answered.
“In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to take his statement,” said the inspector. “You are at liberty, sir, to give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down.”
“I’ll sit down, with your leave,” the prisoner said, suiting the action to the word. “This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I’m on the brink of the grave, and I am not likely [78] to lie to you. Every word I say is the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me.”
With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had access to Lestrade’s notebook, in which the prisoner’s words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.
“It don’t much matter to you why I hated these men,” he said; “it’s enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings–a father and daughter–and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You’d have done the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.
“That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts should be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried it about with me, and have followed him and his accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to desire.
“They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a cab-owner’s office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had a map beside me, though, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.
“It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the river. When once I found them out, I knew that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.
“They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then they could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or late at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behindhand with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.
“They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone, and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every day, and never once [79] saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little too soon and leave my work undone.
“At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought out and after a time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse and followed them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer that one had just gone, and there would not be another for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that he must not presume to dictate to him. On that the secretary gave it up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the last train he should rejoin him at Halliday’s Private Hotel; to which Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and made his way out of the station.
“The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the difficult problem which I had now to solve.
“He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying for nearly half an hour in the last of them. When he came out, he staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so close that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking.”
[80] I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.
“That’s better,” he said. “Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap whom I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent him half across the road. ‘You hound!’ he cried, shaking his stick at him; ‘I’ll teach you to insult an honest girl!’ He was so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. ‘Drive me to Halliday’s Private Hotel,’ said he.
“When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I might take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted lane have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this, when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word that I should wait for him. There he remained until closing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my own hands.
“Don’t imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for his life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets which I have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper-out of the laboratory at York College. One day the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that when I had my chance my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite as deadly and a good deal less noisy than firing across a handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about with me, and the time had now come when I was to use them.
“It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within–so glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling and my temples throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton Road.
“There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber all huddled [81] together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, ‘It’s time to get out,’ I said.
“‘All right, cabby,’ said he.
“I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned, for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden. I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it and led him into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the daughter were walking in front of us.
“‘It’s infernally dark,’ said he, stamping about.
“‘We’ll soon have a light,’ I said, striking a match and putting it to a wax candle which I had brought with me. ‘Now, Enoch Drebber,’ I continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, ‘who am I?’
“He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment,
and then I saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole
features, which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with
a livid face, and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow,
while his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight I leaned my
back against the door and laughed loud and long. I had always
known that vengeance would be sweet, but I had never hoped for
the contentment of soul which now possessed me.
“‘You dog!’ I said; ‘I have hunted you
from Salt Lake City to St. Petersburg, and you have always
escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings have come to an end, for
either you or I shall never see to-morrow’s sun
rise.’ He shrunk still farther away as I spoke, and I could
see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the time.
The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I believe
I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not gushed
from my nose and relieved me.
“‘What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?’ I
cried, locking the door, and shaking the key in his face.
‘Punishment has been slow in coming, but it has overtaken
you at last.’ I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He
would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was
useless.
“‘Would you murder me?’ he stammered.
“‘There is no murder,’ I answered. ‘Who
talks of murdering a mad dog? What mercy had you upon my poor
darling, when you dragged her from her slaughtered father, and
bore her away to your accursed and shameless harem?’
“‘It was not I who killed her father,’ he
cried.
“‘But it was you who broke her innocent heart,’
I shrieked, thrusting the box before him. ‘Let the high God
judge between us. Choose and eat. There is death in one and life
in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let us see if there is
justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled by
chance.’
“He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but
I drew my knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me.
Then I swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in
silence for a minute or more, waiting to see which was to live
and which was to die. Shall I ever forget the look which came
over his face when the first warning pangs told him that the
poison was in his system? I laughed as I saw it, and held
Lucy’s marriage ring in front of his eyes. It was but for a
moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain
contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,
staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the
floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon
his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!
“The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken
no notice of it. [82] I don’t know what it was that
put it into my head to write upon the wall with it. Perhaps it
was some mischievous idea of setting the police upon a wrong
track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remember a German
being found in New York with RACHE written up
above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers that
the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped
my finger in my own blood and printed it on a convenient place on
the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found that there was
nobody about, and that the night was still very wild. I had
driven some distance, when I put my hand into the pocket in which
I usually kept Lucy’s ring, and found that it was not
there. I was thunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento
that I had of her. Thinking that I might have dropped it when I
stooped over Drebber’s body, I drove back, and leaving my
cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the house–for I
was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring. When I
arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a police-officer
who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his suspicions by
pretending to be hopelessly drunk.
“That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to
do then was to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John
Ferrier’s debt. I knew that he was staying at
Halliday’s Private Hotel, and I hung about all day, but he
never came out. I fancy that he suspected something when Drebber
failed to put in an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson,
and always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off by
staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which
was the window of his bedroom, and early next morning I took
advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the
hotel, and so made my way into his room in the gray of the dawn.
I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he was to
answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described
Drebber’s death to him, and I gave him the same choice of
the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety
which that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my
throat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have
been the same in any case, for Providence would never have
allowed his guilty hand to pick out anything but the
poison.
“I have little more to say, and it’s as well, for I
am about done up. I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending
to keep at it until I could save enough to take me back to
America. I was standing in the yard when a ragged youngster asked
if there was a cabby there called Jefferson Hope, and said that
his cab was wanted by a gentleman at 221B, Baker Street. I went
round suspecting no harm, and the next thing I knew, this young
man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and as neatly shackled
as ever I saw in my life. That’s the whole of my story,
gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that
I am just as much an officer of justice as you are.”
So thrilling had the man’s narrative been and his manner
was so impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the
professional detectives, blase as they were in every detail of
crime, appeared to be keenly interested in the man’s story.
When he finished, we sat for some minutes in a stillness which
was only broken by the scratching of Lestrade’s pencil as
he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand account.
“There is only one point on which I should like a little
more information,” Sherlock Holmes said at last. “Who
was your accomplice who came for the ring which I
advertised?”
[83]
The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. “I can tell my
own secrets,” he said, “but I don’t get other
people into trouble. I saw your advertisement, and I thought it
might be a plant, or it might be the ring which I wanted. My
friend volunteered to go and see. I think you’ll own he did
it smartly.”
“Not a doubt of that,” said Holmes, heartily.
“Now, gentlemen,” the inspector remarked gravely,
“the forms of the law must be complied with. On Thursday
the prisoner will be brought before the magistrates, and your
attendance will be required. Until then I will be responsible for
him.” He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was
led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our
way out of the station and took a cab back to Baker Street.
THE CONCLUSION
WE HAD all been warned to appear before the
magistrates upon the Thursday; but when the Thursday came there
was no occasion for our testimony. A higher Judge had taken the
matter in hand, and Jefferson Hope had been summoned before a
tribunal where strict justice would be meted out to him. On the
very night after his capture the aneurism burst, and he was found
in the morning stretched upon the floor of the cell, with a
placid smile upon his face, as though he had been able in his
dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well
done.
“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,”
Holmes remarked, as we chatted it over next evening. “Where
will their grand advertisement be now?”
“I don’t see that they had very much to do with his
capture,” I answered.
“What you do in this world is a matter of no
consequence,” returned my companion, bitterly. “The
question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?
Never mind,” he continued, more brightly, after a pause.
“I would not have missed the investigation for anything.
There has been no better case within my recollection. Simple as
it was, there were several most instructive points about
it.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Well, really, it can hardly be described as
otherwise,” said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise.
“The proof of its intrinsic simplicity is, that without any
help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able to lay my
hand upon the criminal within three days.”
“That is true,” said I.
“I have already explained to you that what is out of the
common is usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a
problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason
backward. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very easy
one, but people do not practise it much. In the everyday affairs
of life it is more useful to reason forward, and so the other
comes to be neglected. There are fifty who can reason
synthetically for one who can reason analytically.”
“I confess,” said I, “that I do not quite
follow you.”
“I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make
it clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to
them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those
events together in their minds, and argue from them [84] that
something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who,
if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own
inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that
result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning
backward, or analytically.”
“I understand,” said I.
“Now this was a case in which you were given the result and
had to find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to
show you the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the
beginning. I approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with
my mind entirely free from all impressions. I naturally began by
examining the roadway, and there, as I have already explained to
you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by
inquiry, must have been there during the night. I satisfied
myself that it was a cab and not a private carriage by the narrow
gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler is considerably
less wide than a gentleman’s brougham.
“This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down
the garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil,
peculiarly suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared
to you to be a mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained
eyes every mark upon its surface had a meaning. There is no
branch of detective science which is so important and so much
neglected as the art of tracing footsteps. Happily, I have always
laid great stress upon it, and much practice has made it second
nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the constables, but I
saw also the track of the two men who had first passed through
the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been before the
others, because in places their marks had been entirely
obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In this
way my second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal
visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I
calculated from the length of his stride), and the other
fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and elegant
impression left by his boots.
“On entering the house this last inference was confirmed.
My well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done
the murder, if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead
man’s person, but the agitated expression upon his face
assured me that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon him.
Men who die from heart disease, or any sudden natural cause,
never by any chance exhibit agitation upon their features. Having
sniffed the dead man’s lips, I detected a slightly sour
smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced
upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him from
the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of
exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other hypothesis
would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very
unheard-of idea. The forcible administration of poison is by no
means a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in
Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any
toxicologist.
“And now came the great question as to the reason why.
Robbery had not been the object of the murder, for nothing was
taken. Was it politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the
question which confronted me. I was inclined from the first to
the latter supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to
do their work and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been
done most deliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks
all over the room, showing that he had been there all the time.
It must have been a private wrong, and not a political one, which
called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription was
discovered [85] upon the wall, I was more inclined
than ever to my opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind.
When the ring was found, however, it settled the question.
Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of some
dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson
whether he had inquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to any
particular point in Mr. Drebber’s former career. He
answered, you remember, in the negative.
“I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the
room, which confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer’s
height, and furnished me with the additional details as to the
Trichinopoly cigar and the length of his nails. I had already
come to the conclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle,
that the blood which covered the floor had burst from the
murderer’s nose in his excitement. I could perceive that
the track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It is
seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out
in this way through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the
criminal was probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved
that I had judged correctly.
“Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had
neglected. I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland,
limiting my inquiry to the circumstances connected with the
marriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me
that Drebber had already applied for the protection of the law
against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this
same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that I held the
clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was to
secure the murderer.
“I had already determined in my own mind that the man who
had walked into the house with Drebber was none other than the
man who had driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that
the horse had wandered on in a way which would have been
impossible had there been anyone in charge of it. Where, then,
could the driver be, unless he were inside the house? Again, it
is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry out a
deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third
person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man
wished to dog another through London, what better means could he
adopt than to turn cabdriver? All these considerations led me to
the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found
among the jarveys of the Metropolis.
“If he had been one, there was no reason to believe that he
had ceased to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any
sudden change would be likely to draw attention to himself. He
would probably, for a time at least, continue to perform his
duties. There was no reason to suppose that he was going under an
assumed name. Why should he change his name in a country where no
one knew his original one? I therefore organized my street Arab
detective corps, and sent them systematically to every cab
proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that I
wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage
of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The murder of
Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected, but
which could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,
as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence
of which I had already surmised. You see, the whole thing is a
chain of logical sequences without a break or flaw.”
“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should
be publicly recognized. You should publish an account of the
case. If you won’t, I will for you.”
“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered.
“See here!” he continued, handing a paper over to me,
“look at this!”
[86]
It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which
he pointed was devoted to the case in question.
“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational
treat through the sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected
of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.
The details of the case will probably be never known now, though
we are informed upon good authority that the crime was the result
of an old-standing and romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism
bore a part. It seems that both the victims belonged, in their
younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the deceased
prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had no
other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking
manner the efficiency of our detective police force, and will
serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do wisely to
settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to British
soil. It is an open secret that the credit of this smart capture
belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it
appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has
himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective line
and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain to
some degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of
some sort will be presented to the two officers as a fitting
recognition of their services.”
“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?”
cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh. “That’s the
result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
testimonial!”
“Never mind,” I answered; “I have all the facts
in my journal, and the public shall know them. In the meantime
you must make yourself contented by the consciousness of success,
like the Roman miser–
“Populus me sibilat, at mihi
plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.”