The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Study In Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle
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Title: A Study In Scarlet
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
Release Date: April, 1995 [eBook #244]
[Most recently updated: April 18, 2023]
Language: English
Produced by: Roger Squires and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STUDY IN SCARLET ***
By A. Conan Doyle
CONTENTS
A STUDY IN SCARLET. |
PART I. |
CHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES. |
CHAPTER II. THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION. |
CHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDENS MYSTERY |
CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL. |
CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR. |
CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO. |
CHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. |
PART II. THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS |
CHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN. |
CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH. |
CHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET. |
CHAPTER IV. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE. |
CHAPTER V. THE AVENGING ANGELS. |
CHAPTER VI. A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D. |
CHAPTER VII. THE CONCLUSION. |
PART I.
(Being a reprint from the Reminiscences of JOHN H.WATSON, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department.)
CHAPTER I.
MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University ofLondon, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed forsurgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached tothe Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment wasstationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghanwar had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advancedthrough 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, andsucceeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and atonce entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothingbut misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to theBerkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I wasstruck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazedthe subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderousGhazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, myorderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safelyto the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, Iwas removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital atPeshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walkabout the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struckdown by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my lifewas despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, Iwas so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day shouldbe lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in thetroopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with myhealth irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government tospend 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 asfree as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man tobe. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that greatcesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistiblydrained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leadinga comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had,considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my financesbecome, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis andrusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alterationin my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up mymind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentiousand less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at theCriterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round Irecognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sightof a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeedto a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony ofmine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to bedelighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with meat the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguisedwonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as alath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by thetime that we reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to mymisfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whetherit is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man to-daythat 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 wasbemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halveswith him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for hispurse.”
“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and theexpense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to beingalone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You don’tknow Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as aconstant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in hisideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is adecent 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 upin anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he hasnever taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultoryand eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way knowledge which wouldastonish 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 becommunicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I shouldprefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to standmuch noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me forthe 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 avoidsthe place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to night. If you like,we shall 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 mea few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as afellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know nothingmore of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in thelaboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold meresponsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems tome, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you have somereason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper soformidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed 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 tocold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of thelatest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simplyout of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. Todo 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 inthe dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarreshape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at itwith 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 youmust form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrowlane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of thegreat hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as weascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor withits vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end alow arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, lowtables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, andlittle Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only onestudent 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 ofpleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, runningtowards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which isprecipitated by hæmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a goldmine, 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 Ishould hardly have given him credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, Iperceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is abouthæmoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “butpractically——”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don’t yousee 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 tableat which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he said, digginga long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in achemical 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. Theproportion 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 hespoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some dropsof a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahoganycolour, 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 childwith a new toy. “What do you think of that?”
“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. Sois the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless ifthe stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether theblood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men nowwalking 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 suspectedof a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes areexamined, and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, ormud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is aquestion which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was noreliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes’ test, and there will no longerbe any difficulty.”
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart andbowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at hisenthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainlyhave been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason ofBradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson ofNew Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have beendecisive.”
“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a laugh. “Youmight 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 becareful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with poisonsa good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was allmottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-leggedstool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend herewants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no oneto 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. “Ihave my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down tothe 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 doexperiments. 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 Ido that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confessnow? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another beforethey begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and I objectto rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodlyhours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, butthose 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 forthe gods—a badly-played one——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may considerthe 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 settleeverything,” he answered.
“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards myhotel.
“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how thedeuce 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 ammuch obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind isman,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. “You’ll findhim a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more about you than youabout him. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested inmy new acquaintance.
CHAPTER II.
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. Theyconsisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airysitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. Sodesirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seemwhen divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and weat once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my things round fromthe hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me withseveral boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed inunpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, wegradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our newsurroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in hisways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten atnight, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in themorning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes inthe dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to takehim into the lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy whenthe working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, andfor days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly utteringa word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I havenoticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might havesuspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not thetemperance 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 inlife, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance weresuch as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he wasrather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerablytaller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torporto which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expressionan air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence andsquareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariablyblotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed ofextraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when Iwatched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much thisman stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break through thereticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncingjudgment, however, be it remembered, how objectless was my life, and how littlethere was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing outunless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who wouldcall upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under thesecircumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around mycompanion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question, confirmedStamford’s opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued anycourse of reading which might fit him for a degree in science or any otherrecognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yethis zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits hisknowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations havefairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such preciseinformation unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers areseldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mindwith 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 quotingThomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he haddone. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that hewas ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the SolarSystem. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not beaware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such anextraordinary 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 alittle 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 theknowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbledup with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his handsupon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takesinto his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him indoing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the mostperfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic wallsand can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for everyaddition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of thehighest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out theuseful ones.”
“But the Solar System!” I protested.
“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say that we goround the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth ofdifference to me or to my work.”
I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something in hismanner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I pondered overour 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 tohim. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shownme that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jottedthem down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. Itran 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. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soilsfrom each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and toldme by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had receivedthem.
7. Chemistry.—Profound.
8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears to know every detail ofevery 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 canonly find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all theseaccomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,” I said tomyself, “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 veryremarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he couldplay pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he hasplayed me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other favourites. When left tohimself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognizedair. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes andscrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes thechords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic andcheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whetherthe music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result ofa whim or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled againstthese exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them byplaying in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slightcompensation for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that mycompanion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however, I foundthat he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes ofsociety. There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who wasintroduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a singleweek. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for halfan hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who wasclosely followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an oldwhite-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another arailway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescriptindividuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use ofthe sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to mefor putting me to this inconvenience. “I have to use this room as a place ofbusiness,” he said, “and these people are my clients.” Again I had anopportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my delicacyprevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the timethat he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelledthe 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 rosesomewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yetfinished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habitsthat my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonablepetulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I wasready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to while awaythe time with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of thearticles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eyethrough it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted to showhow much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examinationof all that came in his way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture ofshrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but thedeductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimedby a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, tofathom a man’s inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibilityin the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were asinfallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his resultsappear to the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he hadarrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could infer thepossibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one orthe other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known wheneverwe are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deductionand Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor islife long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfectionin it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter whichpresent the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering moreelementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance todistinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to which hebelongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties ofobservation, and teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man’sfinger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by thecallosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirtcuffs—by each of these things a man’s calling is plainly revealed. Thatall united should fail to enlighten the competent enquirer in any case isalmost inconceivable.”
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table, “Inever read such rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down tomy breakfast. “I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don’tdeny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently thetheory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes inthe seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see himclapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to givethe trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one againsthim.”
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. “As for thearticle I wrote it myself.”
“You!”
“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories whichI have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical are reallyextremely practical—so practical that I depend upon them for my bread andcheese.”
“And how?” I asked involuntarily.
“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I’ma consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London wehave lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellowsare at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. Theylay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of myknowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strongfamily resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of athousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand andfirst. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recentlyover 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 whoare in trouble about something, and want a little enlightening. I listen totheir 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 canunravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they have seenevery detail for themselves?”
“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns upwhich is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things withmy own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to theproblem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deductionlaid down in that article which aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me inpractical work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to besurprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come fromAfghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habitthe train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at theconclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were suchsteps, however. The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a medicaltype, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He hasjust come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the naturaltint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship andsickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. Heholds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an Englisharmy doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly inAfghanistan.’ The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I thenremarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”
“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind me ofEdgar Allen Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outsideof stories.”
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think that you arecomplimenting 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 hisfriends’ thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour’s silenceis 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.”
“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked. “Does Lecoq come up to your idea ofa 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 hisenergy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify anunknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took sixmonths or so. It might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what toavoid.”
I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated inthis cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood looking out intothe busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,” I said to myself, “but he iscertainly 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 itin me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has broughtthe same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime whichI 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 Yardofficial can see through it.”
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it bestto 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 thestreet, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in hishand, 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 hisguess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we werewatching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across theroadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascendingthe stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing myfriend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought ofthis when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in theblandest 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 a salute, and was gone.
CHAPTER III.
THE LAURISTON GARDENS MYSTERY
I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the practicalnature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers of analysisincreased wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind,however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzleme, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past mycomprehension. When I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and hiseyes had assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mentalabstraction.
“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 aswell. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant ofMarines?”
“No, indeed.”
“It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were asked toprove that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet youare quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a great blueanchor tattooed on the back of the fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea. Hehad a military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There we havethe marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain airof command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swunghis cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face ofhim—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 waspleased at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just now that there wereno criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look at this!” He threw me overthe 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. “Wouldyou 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, offthe Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in themorning, 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 hispocket bearing the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ Therehad 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. Weare at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affairis a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, youwill find me there. I have left everything in statu quo until I hearfrom you. If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details, and wouldesteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
Yours faithfully,
“TOBIAS GREGSON.”
“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he andLestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, butconventional—shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too.They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some funover 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 amoment 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 thatever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can bespry 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 wholematter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all thecredit. 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 wouldcut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we mayas well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have alaugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that anenergetic 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 ahansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over thehouse-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath. Mycompanion 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 wassilent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we wereengaged, depressed my spirits.
“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I said at last,interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.
“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before youhave all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”
“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger; “this isthe 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 offour which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied andtwo 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 haddeveloped like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled overwith a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses fromthe street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, andconsisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place wasvery sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden wasbounded 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 asmall knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in thevain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the houseand plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further fromhis 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 ofrailings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, orrather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyesriveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heardhim utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footstepsupon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going overit, 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 perceptivefaculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hiddenfrom 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 handwith effusion. “It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “I have hadeverything left untouched.”
“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. “If a herd ofbuffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permittedthis.”
“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective said evasively. “Mycolleague, 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 menas yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for a thirdparty to find out,” he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think we have done allthat can be done,” he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew yourtaste 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 strodeon into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed hisastonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Twodoors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviouslybeen closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which wasthe 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 ofdeath inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of allfurniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched inplaces with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached andhung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showyfireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one cornerof this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was sodirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge toeverything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated thewhole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was centredupon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards,with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was thatof a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broadshouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He wasdressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-colouredtrousers, 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 armsthrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his deathstruggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expressionof horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen uponhuman features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the lowforehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularlysimious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnaturalposture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in amore fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out uponone of the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, andgreeted 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 andsplashes of blood which lay all round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumablythe murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstancesattendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year ‘34. Do youremember the case, Gregson?”
“No, sir.”
“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It hasall been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere,feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the samefar-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was theexamination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with whichit was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced atthe soles of his patent leather boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.”
“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said. “There is nothing more to belearned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered theroom, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised him, a ringtinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared atit with mystified eyes.
“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 roundhim and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain goldhad once adorned the finger of a bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson. “Heaven knows, they were complicatedenough before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “There’s nothing to belearned 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 oneof the bottom steps of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, ofLondon. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonicdevice. Gold pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leathercard-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with theE. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of sevenpounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s Decameron, with name ofJoseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. 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 fromthe Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boats fromLiverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to NewYork.”
“Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?”
“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had advertisements sent to allthe newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he hasnot 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 anyinformation which could help us.”
“You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to becrucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears tohinge? 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 someremark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holdingthis conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands ina pompous and self-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highestimportance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a carefulexamination of the walls.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state ofsuppressed exultation at having scored a point against his colleague.
“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of which feltclearer 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 particularcorner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square ofcoarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-redletters a single word—
RACHE.
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, with the air of a showmanexhibiting his show. “This was overlooked because it was in the darkest cornerof the room, and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written itwith 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 towrite it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit atthe time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of thedarkest portion of the wall.”
“And what does it mean now that you have found it?” asked Gregson in adepreciatory 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, whenthis case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel hassomething to do with it. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr. SherlockHolmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, whenall is said and done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had ruffled the little man’stemper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You certainly have thecredit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bearsevery mark of having been written by the other participant in last night’smystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permissionI shall do so now.”
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass fromhis 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 ourpresence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time,keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little criessuggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistiblyreminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards andforwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes acrossthe lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches,measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which wereentirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in anequally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully alittle pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope.Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall, going over everyletter of it with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to besatisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” he remarkedwith a smile. “It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply to detectivework.”
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manœuvres of their amateur companion withconsiderable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciatethe fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actionswere 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 was to presume to helpyou,” remarked my friend. “You are doing so well now that it would be a pityfor anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as hespoke. “If you will let me know how your investigations go,” he continued, “Ishall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like tospeak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name andaddress?”
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “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 onething which may help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the twodetectives. “There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man. He wasmore than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for hisheight, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He camehere with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse withthree old shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability themurderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand wereremarkably 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-mouthedbehind him.
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.
It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes ledme to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. Hethen hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to the address given us byLestrade.
“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 allthat is to be learned.”
“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you pretend tobe of all those particulars which you gave.”
“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing which Iobserved on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheelsclose to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain for a week, sothat those wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there duringthe night. There were the marks of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of oneof which was far more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing thatthat was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was notthere at any time during the morning—I have Gregson’s word forthat—it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house.”
“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 thelength of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though there is no usemy boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride both on the clay outsideand on the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a manwrites on a wall, his instinct leads him to write about the level of his owneyes. Now that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child’splay.”
“And his age?” I asked.
“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest effort, hecan’t be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth of a puddle on thegarden walk which he had evidently walked across. Patent-leather boots had goneround, and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. Iam simply applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation anddeduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else thatpuzzles you?”
“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.
“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in blood. Myglass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in doingit, which would not have been the case if the man’s nail had been trimmed. Igathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour andflakey—such an ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made aspecial study of cigar ashes—in fact, I have written a monograph upon thesubject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of anyknown brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such details that theskilled 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. Youmust 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 moreone thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these two men—ifthere were two men—into an empty house? What has become of the cabman whodrove them? How could one man compel another to take poison? Where did theblood come from? What was the object of the murderer, since robbery had no partin it? How came the woman’s ring there? Above all, why should the second manwrite up the German word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot seeany 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 onthe main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery it was simply a blind intendedto put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secretsocieties. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed, was printedsomewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in theLatin 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 divertinquiry into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell you much more of the case,Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained histrick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to theconclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”
“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have brought detection as near anexact science as it ever will be brought in this world.”
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in whichI uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery onthe 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 camein the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly aspossible—arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside they walkedup and down the room—or rather, Patent-leathers stood still whileSquare-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I couldread that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by theincreased length of his strides. He was talking all the while, and workinghimself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I’ve told you allI know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a goodworking basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to goto Halle’s concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way througha long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest anddreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand. “That’s Audley Court inthere,” 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 aquadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our wayamong groups of dirty children, and through lines of discoloured linen, untilwe came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip ofbrass on which the name Rance was engraved. On enquiry we found that theconstable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlour to awaithis coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in hisslumbers. “I made my report at the office,” he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively. “Wethought 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 withhis eyes upon the little golden disk.
“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 thoughdetermined not to omit anything in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said. “My time is from ten at night tosix in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White Hart’; but barthat all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it began to rain, and Imet Harry Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove beat—and we stoodtogether at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’. Presently—maybeabout two or a little after—I thought I would take a look round and seethat all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Nota soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was astrollin’ down, thinkin’ between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hotwould be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window ofthat same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens wasempty on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seen to,though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid fever. Iwas knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and Isuspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door——”
“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companioninterrupted. “What did you do that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmostamazement upon his features.
“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to know it, Heaven onlyknows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome, thatI thought I’d be none the worse for some one with me. I ain’t afeared ofanything on this side o’ the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him thatdied o’ the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave mea kind o’ turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’slantern, 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 togetherand went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went intothe room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickerin’ on themantelpiece—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 youknelt 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 adeal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. “Don’t getarresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not thewolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What didyou do next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression. “Iwent back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two moreto 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 inmy time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He was atthe gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the railings, and a-singin’ at thepitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. Hecouldn’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 anuncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in the station ifwe hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke inimpatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up—meand Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower partmuffled round——”
“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”
“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policeman said, in anaggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home all right.”
“How was he dressed?”
“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 seeor hear a cab after that?”
“No.”
“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said, standing up and takinghis hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That headof yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained yoursergeant’s stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the manwho holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use ofarguing about it now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, butobviously 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 nottaking advantage of it.”
“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this mantallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why should hecome 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 otherway of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall havehim, Doctor—I’ll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you forit all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest studyI ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn’t we use a little artjargon. There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourlessskein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose everyinch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and herbowing are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays somagnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a larkwhile I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.
CHAPTER V.
OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.
Our morning’s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was tiredout in the afternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I lay down uponthe sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep. It was a uselessattempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that had occurred, and thestrangest fancies and surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed myeyes 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 Ifound it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed itsowner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most malignanttype, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still Irecognized that justice must be done, and that the depravity of the victim wasno 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 hislips, and had no doubt that he had detected something which had given rise tothe idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man’s death, sincethere 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 signsof a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have woundedan antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleepwould be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confidentmanner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained all thefacts, 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 couldnot 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 whatDarwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and appreciatingit 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 memoriesin 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,” heanswered. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This BrixtonRoad affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be more case-hardened after myAfghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand withoutlosing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates theimagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seenthe evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the factthat when the man was raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon the floor. Itis just as well it does not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had one sent to every paper thismorning immediately after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It wasthe first announcement in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road, this morning,”it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the ‘WhiteHart’ Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, betweeneight and nine this evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I used my own some of thesedunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing anyone applies, I have noring.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one. “This will do very well. It isalmost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”
“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 tobelieve 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, anddid not miss it at the time. After leaving the house he discovered his loss andhurried back, but found the police already in possession, owing to his ownfolly in leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order toallay the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at thegate. Now put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking the matter over, itmust have occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in theroad after leaving the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look outfor the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. Hiseye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should hefear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ringshould be connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall seehim 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 Ishall 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 pistolthe table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite occupationof scraping upon his violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I have just had an answer to myAmerican 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 pistolin your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary way. Leavethe 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. Thatwill do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a queer old book Ipicked up at a stall yesterday—‘De Jure inter Gentes’—published inLatin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’ head was still firm on hisshoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off.”
“Who is the printer?”
“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very fadedink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William Whyte was.Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legaltwist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose softly andmoved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass alongthe 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 nothear the servant’s reply, but the door closed, and some one began to ascend thestairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of surprisepassed over the face of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly alongthe 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 andwrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by thesudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at uswith her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. Iglanced at my companion, and his face had assumed such a disconsolateexpression 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 anothercurtsey; “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 aboarda Union boat, and what he’d say if he come ‘ome and found her without her ringis more than I can think, he being short enough at the best o’ times, but moreespecially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus lastnight along with——”
“Is that her ring?” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be a glad woman thisnight. 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,” saidSherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little red-rimmedeyes. “The gentleman asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally lives inlodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is——?”
“My name is Sawyer—her’s is Dennis, which Tom Dennis marriedher—and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no stewardin the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and whatwith liquor shops——”
“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in obedience to a sign from mycompanion; “it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad to be able torestore it to the rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone packedit away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprangto his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returnedin a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” hesaid, hurriedly; “she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait upfor me.” The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes haddescended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking feeblyalong 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 willbe led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for him to ask me towait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the resultof his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might be, butI sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri Murger’s“Vie de Bohème.” Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid asthey pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landladypassed my door, bound for the same destination. It was close upon twelve beforeI heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by hisface that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to bestruggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and heburst 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 neverhave let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know that Iwill 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 alittle way when she began to limp and show every sign of being foot-sore.Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. Imanaged to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have beenso anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side ofthe street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This beginsto look genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myselfbehind. That’s an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well, awaywe rattled, and never drew rein until we reached the street in question. Ihopped 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 openthe door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him hewas groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to the finestassorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign ortrace of his passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets hisfare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to arespectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name either ofSawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement, “that that tottering, feebleold woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion, without eitheryou or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “We were the old women tobe so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active one, too, besidesbeing an incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he wasfollowed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip. It shows thatthe man we are after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends whoare ready to risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Takemy advice and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left Holmesseated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the nightI heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin, and knew that he was stillpondering over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
CHAPTER VI.
TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
The papers next day were full of the “Brixton Mystery,” as they termed it. Eachhad 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 myscrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon the case. Here is acondensation of a few of them:—
The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there hadseldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German name of thevictim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister inscription on thewall, 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 alludingairily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness deBrinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the RatcliffHighway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government andadvocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.
The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sortusually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the unsettlingof the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening of all authority. Thedeceased was an American gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in theMetropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, inTorquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his privatesecretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady uponTuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowedintention of catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen togetherupon 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 fromEuston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which arestill 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, areboth engaged upon the case, and it is confidently anticipated that thesewell-known officers will speedily throw light upon the matter.
The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being apolitical one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated theContinental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores a number ofmen who might have made excellent citizens were they not soured by therecollection of all that they had undergone. Among these men there was astringent code of honour, any infringement of which was punished by death.Every effort should be made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertainsome particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been gained bythe discovery of the address of the house at which he had boarded—aresult which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson ofScotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and theyappeared to afford him considerable amusement.
“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure toscore.”
“That depends on how it turns out.”
“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught, it willbe on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be inspite of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whateverthey do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot quil’admire.’”
“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the patteringof many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressionsof disgust upon the part of our landlady.
“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said mycompanion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen ofthe dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
“‘Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little scoundrelsstood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. “In future you shall sendup Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait in the street. Haveyou 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 yourwages.” 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 weheard 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 adozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an official-lookingperson seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and heareverything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is organisation.”
“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 oftime. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance! Here isGregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of hisface. 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-haireddetective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into oursitting-room.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand, “congratulateme! 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 knowhow you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous exertions whichI have gone through during the last day or two have worn me out. Not so muchbodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You willappreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain-workers.”
“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you arrivedat this most gratifying result.”
The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently at hiscigar. 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 sosmart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is after the secretaryStangerson, who had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I haveno 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, Doctor Watson, this is strictlybetween ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend with was thefinding of this American’s antecedents. Some people would have waited untiltheir advertisements were answered, or until parties came forward andvolunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson’s way of going to work. Youremember the hat beside the dead man?”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”
Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.
“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 anddescription. He looked over his books, and came on it at once. He had sent thehat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s Boarding Establishment, TorquayTerrace. Thus I got at his address.”
“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I found hervery pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too—an uncommonlyfine girl she is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her lips trembledas I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my notice. I began to smell a rat. Youknow the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the rightscent—a kind of thrill in your nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysteriousdeath 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 burstinto tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something of thematter.
“‘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 heragitation. ‘His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were twotrains—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. Herfeatures turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she could get outthe single word ‘Yes’—and when it did come it was in a husky unnaturaltone.
“There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm clearvoice.
“‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be frank withthis gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.’
“‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and sinkingback 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 worsethan 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, ‘Iwill tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf of my sonarises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair. Heis utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in theeyes of others he may appear to be compromised. That however is surelyimpossible. His high character, his profession, his antecedents would allforbid it.’
“‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,’ I answered. ‘Dependupon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.’
“‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’ she said, and her daughterwithdrew. ‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of telling you allthis, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have no alternative. Havingonce 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 stoppingplace. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry tosay, 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 besober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free andfamiliar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards mydaughter, 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 inhis arms and embraced her—an outrage which caused his own secretary toreproach him for his unmanly conduct.’
“‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I suppose that you can get rid ofyour boarders when you wish.’
“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. ‘Would to God that I hadgiven him notice on the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it was a soretemptation. 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 memuch. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the best. This last was toomuch, however, and I gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was thereason 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 heis passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the door behind them a loadseemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ringat 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 wassitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missedhis train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to herthat she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he said, “and there is no lawto 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.” PoorAlice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by thewrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at thatmoment my son Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. Iheard oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raisemy head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, witha stick in his hand. “I don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us again,” hesaid. “I will just go after him and see what he does with himself.” With thosewords he took his hat and started off down the street. The next morning weheard 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 shorthandnotes of all that she said, however, so that there should be no possibility ofa 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 wholecase hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always foundeffective with women, I asked her at what hour her son returned.
“‘I do not know,’ she answered.
“‘Not know?’
“‘No; he has a latch-key, 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 whereLieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and arrested him. When Itouched him on the shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answeredus as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in thedeath 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 withhim 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. Whenthere, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of which Drebberreceived a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, whichkilled him without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one wasabout, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house. Asto the candle, and the blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, theymay 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 aregetting along. We shall make something of you yet.”
“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,” the detective answeredproudly. “The young man volunteered a statement, in which he said that afterfollowing Drebber some time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in orderto get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate, and took a longwalk with him. On being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable togive any satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonlywell. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon thewrong scent. I am afraid he won’t make much of it. Why, by Jove, here’s thevery man himself!”
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were talking, andwho now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness which generally markedhis demeanour and dress were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed andtroubled, while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently comewith the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving hiscolleague he appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre ofthe room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is amost extraordinary case,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensibleaffair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “I thought youwould come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the Secretary, Mr.Joseph Stangerson?”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was murdered atHalliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”
CHAPTER VII.
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and sounexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang out ofhis chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silenceat Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down overhis eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. “I seemto 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 discoverwhat had occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,” Holmes observed. “Wouldyou mind letting us know what you have seen and done?”
“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating himself. “I freely confessthat I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death ofDrebber. 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 theSecretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eighton the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found inthe Brixton Road. The question which confronted me was to find out howStangerson had been employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and whathad become of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a descriptionof the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I thenset to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity ofEuston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had becomeseparated, the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere inthe vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again nextmorning.”
“They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,” remarkedHolmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making enquiriesentirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock Ireached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my enquiry as towhether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in theaffirmative.
“‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said. ‘He hasbeen 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 himto say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me the room: it wason the second floor, and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The Bootspointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I sawsomething 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 hadmeandered across the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at theother side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted whenhe 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, allhuddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and hadbeen 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 engagedthe room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deepstab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes thestrangest 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, evenbefore Sherlock Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silentfor a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds ofthis unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. Mynerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought ofit.
“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk boy, passing on his way to thedairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back ofthe hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raisedagainst one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. Afterpassing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down soquietly and openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner atwork in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in hisown mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an impression that theman was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. Hemust have stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we foundblood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks onthe sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.”
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which talliedso exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation orsatisfaction 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 thiswas usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, butnothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes,robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in themurdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about amonth ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no nameappended to this message.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself tosleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There wasa glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment boxcontaining 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 threadswhich 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 partedfrom 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 myknowledge. Could you lay your hand upon those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small white box; “I took them and thepurse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety at thePolice Station. It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am boundto say that I do not attach any importance to them.”
“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” turning to me, “are thoseordinary pills?”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, andalmost transparent against the light. “From their lightness and transparency, Ishould imagine that they are soluble in water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would you mind going down and fetchingthat poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which thelandlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its labouredbreathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, itssnow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term ofcanine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes, and drawing hispenknife he suited the action to the word. “One half we return into the box forfuture purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which is ateaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, andthat it readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one whosuspects that he is being laughed at, “I cannot see, however, what it has to dowith the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything todo with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and onpresenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placedit in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watchingthe animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared,however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in alaboured 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 hisfeatures. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showedevery other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion, that I feltsincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by nomeans displeased at this check which he had met.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair andpacing wildly up and down the room; “it is impossible that it should be a merecoincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber areactually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What canit mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It isimpossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I haveit!” With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pillin two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. Theunfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it beforeit gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as ifit had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from hisforehead. “I should have more faith,” he said; “I ought to know by this timethat when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, itinvariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of thetwo pills in that box one was of the most deadly poison, and the other wasentirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box atall.”
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could hardlybelieve that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, toprove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists inmy own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vagueperception of the truth.
“All this seems strange to you,” continued Holmes, “because you failed at thebeginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue whichwas presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everythingwhich has occurred since then has served to confirm my original supposition,and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexedyou and made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and tostrengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness withmystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because itpresents no new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. Thismurder would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of thevictim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of those outréand sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These strangedetails, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect ofmaking 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, “weare all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have yourown methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and preachingnow, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and itseems I was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this secondaffair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he waswrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to knowmore than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to askyou straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the man who didit?”
“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,” remarked Lestrade. “We haveboth tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more than once since Ihave been in the room that you had all the evidence which you require. Surelyyou will not withhold it any longer.”
“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed, “might give him time toperpetrate some fresh atrocity.”
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued towalk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawndown, as was his habit when lost in thought.
“There will be no more murders,” he said at last, stopping abruptly and facingus. “You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked me if Iknow the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a smallthing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him. This Iexpect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my ownarrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have ashrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasionto prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has noidea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but ifhe had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in aninstant among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaningto hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men tobe more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not askedyour assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to thisomission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to promise that theinstant that I can communicate with you without endangering my owncombinations, I shall do so.”
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance, or bythe depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had flushed up tothe roots of his flaxen hair, while the other’s beady eyes glistened withcuriosity and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however, beforethere was a tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, youngWiggins, 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 atScotland 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 theman to put them on.”
“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling. “The cabman may as well help mewith my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about to setout on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it. There was asmall portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. Hewas busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,” he said, kneeling over histask, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put down hishands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling ofmetal, 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 torealize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’ triumphantexpression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman’s dazed, savage face, as heglared at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon hiswrists. For a second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, withan inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes’sgrasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave waybefore him; but before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmessprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, andthen commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that thefour of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the convulsivestrength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangledby his passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect indiminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in getting hishand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we made him realize thathis struggles were of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we hadpinioned his feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feetbreathless and panting.
“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It will serve to take him to ScotlandYard. And now, gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we havereached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to put anyquestions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse toanswer them.”
CHAPTER I.
ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.
In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an aridand repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a barrier againstthe advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from theYellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region ofdesolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grimdistrict. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomyvalleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons; andthere are enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summerare grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the commoncharacteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or ofBlackfeet 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 amongthe scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzlybear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it canamongst 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 northernslope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches the greatflat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and intersected byclumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizonlie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked withsnow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor ofanything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, nomovement upon the dull, grey 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 pathwaytraced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extremedistance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of manyadventurers. Here and there there are scattered white objects which glisten inthe sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, andexamine them! They are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and moredelicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteenhundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scatteredremains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May, eighteenhundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance was such that hemight have been the very genius or demon of the region. An observer would havefound it difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His facewas lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly overthe projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked anddashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with anunnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshythan 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 wiryand vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hungso baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him thatsenile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying—dying from hunger andfrom thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation, inthe vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretchedbefore his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a signanywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. Inall that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and westhe looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderingshad 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, andalso a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried slung overhis right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, forin lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantlythere broke from the grey parcel a little moaning cry, and from it thereprotruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two littlespeckled, 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 hespoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of aboutfive years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its littlelinen apron all bespoke a mother’s care. The child was pale and wan, but herhealthy 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 towsygolden curls which covered the back of her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, showing the injuredpart 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 ‘mostalways did if she was just goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and now she’s beenaway three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t there no water, nornothing to eat?”
“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patient awhile, andthen you’ll be all right. Put your head up agin me like that, and then you’llfeel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guessI’d best let you know how the cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?”
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically, holdingup two glittering fragments of mica. “When we goes back to home I’ll give themto brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man confidently. “Youjust wait a bit. I was going to tell you though—you remember when we leftthe river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon, d’ye see. But there wassomethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t turn up. Waterran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of youand—and——”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companion gravely, staring upat 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 herpinafore and sobbing bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some chance ofwater in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we tramped ittogether. It don’t seem as though we’ve improved matters. There’s an almightysmall 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 sucha 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 usat the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of buckwheatcakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How longwill it be first?”
“I don’t know—not very long.” The man’s eyes were fixed upon the northernhorizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared three little speckswhich increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they approach. Theyspeedily resolved themselves into three large brown birds, which circled overthe heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some rocks whichoverlooked them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming isthe forerunner of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their ill-omenedforms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. “Say, did God make thiscountry?”
“In course He did,” said her companion, rather startled by this unexpectedquestion.
“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri,” the littlegirl continued. “I guess somebody else made the country in these parts. It’snot 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. Yousay over them ones that you used to say every night in the waggon when we wason the Plains.”
“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 theheight o’ that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out, and I’llstand by and come in on the choruses.”
“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,” she said, laying the shawl outfor that purpose. “You’ve got to put your hands up like this. It makes you feelkind o’ good.”
It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see it. Sideby side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little prattling childand the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face, and his haggard,angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfeltentreaty to that dread being with whom they were face to face, while the twovoices—the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh—united inthe entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed theirseat in the shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling uponthe 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 hehad allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids drooped overthe tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the breast, until theman’s grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion, and bothslept the same deep and dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight wouldhave met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain there roseup a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and hardly to be distinguishedfrom the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader untilit formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in sizeuntil it became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude ofmoving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to theconclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairieland was approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. Asthe whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the twocastaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures ofarmed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealeditself as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what acaravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rearwas not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretchedthe straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot.Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddledbeside the waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This wasevidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who hadbeen compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country.There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from thisgreat 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 abovethem.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced men,clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the base ofthe 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.
“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 willnot now abandon His own chosen people.”
“Amen! Amen!” responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest andkeenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag abovethem. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hardand bright against the grey rocks behind. At the sight there was a generalreining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen camegalloping 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 appearedto be in command. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribesuntil 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 amoment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and wereascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object which had excitedtheir curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence anddexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see themflit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the skyline. Theyoung man who had first given the alarm was leading them. Suddenly hisfollowers saw him throw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, andon joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met theireyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single giantboulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded andhard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regularbreathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child, withher round white arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden hairedhead 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 playedover her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating in whitesocks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to thelong shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above thisstrange 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 inbewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plainwhich had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and which was nowtraversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed anexpression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his boney hand over hiseyes. “This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he muttered. The child stoodbeside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but lookedall round her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that theirappearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and hoisted herupon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt companion, and assistedhim towards the waggons.
“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little un areall that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst and hungeraway down in the south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly; “she’s mine ‘cause I savedher. No man will take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who areyou, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburnedrescuers; “there seems to be a powerful lot of ye.”
“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the young men; “we are the persecutedchildren of God—the chosen of the Angel Merona.”
“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer. “He appears to have chosen afair crowd of ye.”
“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other sternly. “We are of thosewho believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates ofbeaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We havecome from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we had founded our temple. Wehave come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the godless, eventhough 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 bycrowds of the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women, strong laughingchildren, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of astonishment andof commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of one ofthe strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort did not halt,however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until theyreached a waggon, which was conspicuous for its great size and for thegaudiness and smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereasthe others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside thedriver 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 wasreading 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 thetwo castaways.
“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words, “it can only be asbelievers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better farthat your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you should prove tobe that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will youcome with us on these terms?”
“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said Ferrier, with such emphasis thatthe grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained hisstern, impressive expression.
“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give him food and drink, and thechild likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We havedelayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!”
“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down thelong caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a dull murmurin the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels thegreat waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding alongonce more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had been committed, led themto his waggon, where a meal was already awaiting them.
“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have recovered fromyour fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are of ourreligion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of JosephSmith, which is the voice of God.”
CHAPTER II.
THE FLOWER OF UTAH.
This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by theimmigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of theMississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled onwith a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savagebeast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease—every impediment which Naturecould place in the way, had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yetthe long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of thestoutest among them. There was not one who did not sink upon his knees inheartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlightbeneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was thepromised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as aresolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future citywas sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in proportionto the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and theartisan to his calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up, as if bymagic. 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 templewhich 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 ofthe hammer and the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which theimmigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his fortunesand had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons to the end oftheir great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enoughin Elder Stangerson’s waggon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon’sthree wives and with his son, a headstrong forward boy of twelve. Havingrallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from the shock caused by hermother’s death, she soon became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself tothis new life in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier havingrecovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and anindefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new companions,that when they reached the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreedthat he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of land as anyof 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 roomyvilla. He was a man of a practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings andskilful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning andevening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farmand all that belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he wasbetter 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 Citywho could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant WahsatchMountains 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 hisco-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set up afemale establishment after the manner of his companions. He never gave reasonsfor this persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexiblyadhering to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmnessin his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth andreluctance 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 respecthe conformed to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name ofbeing an orthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted father inall his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic odour ofthe pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to the young girl. As yearsucceeded to year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more rudy, and herstep more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier’sfarm felt long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind as they watched herlithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her mounted uponher father’s mustang, and managing it with all the ease and grace of a truechild of the West. So the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which sawher father the richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of Americangirlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child haddeveloped into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change istoo subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does themaiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand setsher heart thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and offear, that a new and a larger nature has awoken within her. There are few whocannot recall that day and remember the one little incident which heralded thedawn of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enoughin itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and that of manybesides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as the beeswhose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streetsrose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled longstreams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever hadbroken out in California, and the Overland Route lay through the City of theElect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from theoutlying pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equallyweary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped LucyFerrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hairfloating out behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, andwas dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness ofyouth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. Thetravel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even theunemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomedstoicism 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 agreat drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen from theplains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing herhorse 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 herselfcompletely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks.Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not alarmed at hersituation, but took advantage of every opportunity to urge her horse on in thehopes of pushing her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of oneof the creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact withthe flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared upupon its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way thatwould have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full ofperil. 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 keepherself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death under the hoofsof the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, herhead began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the risingcloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might haveabandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice at her elbow whichassured her of assistance. At the same moment a sinewy brown hand caught thefrightened horse by the curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon broughther 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 awfulfrightened,” she said, naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho wouldhave 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 therough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. “I guessyou are the daughter of John Ferrier,” he remarked, “I saw you ride down fromhis 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 sparkledwith pleasure. “I’ll do so,” he said, “we’ve been in the mountains for twomonths, and are not over and above in visiting condition. He must take us as hefinds us.”
“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,” she answered, “he’s awfulfond 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. Youain’t even a friend of ours.”
The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy Ferrierlaughed aloud.
“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said; “of course, you are a friend now. Youmust come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won’t trust me with hisbusiness any more. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over herlittle 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 andthey had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver, and werereturning to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital enough to work somelodes which they had discovered. He had been as keen as any of them upon thebusiness until this sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into anotherchannel. The sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierrabreezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths. When shehad 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 ofsuch importance to him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which hadsprung up in his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, butrather 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 hisheart that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverancecould render him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his face wasa familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the valley, and absorbedin his work, had had little chance of learning the news of the outside worldduring the last twelve years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, andin a style which interested Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneerin California, and could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made andfortunes lost in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and atrapper, a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures wereto be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became afavourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On suchoccasions, 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 honestfather may not have observed these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrownaway upon the man who had won her affections.
It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled up atthe gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He threw thebridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.
“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing tenderlydown into her face; “I won’t ask you to come with me now, but will you be readyto 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.
“He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all right. Ihave no fear on that head.”
“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there’s no moreto 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 thecañon. Good-bye, my own darling—good-bye. In two months you shall seeme.”
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 hisresolution might fail him if he took one glance at what he was leaving. Shestood at the gate, gazing after him until he vanished from her sight. Then shewalked back into the house, the happiest girl in all Utah.
CHAPTER III.
JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.
Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had departed fromSalt Lake City. John Ferrier’s heart was sore within him when he thought of theyoung man’s return, and of the impending loss of his adopted child. Yet herbright and happy face reconciled him to the arrangement more than any argumentcould 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. Sucha 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 wasinflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to express anunorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in the Land of theSaints.
Yes, a dangerous matter—so dangerous that even the most saintly daredonly whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something whichfell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a swift retributionupon them. The victims of persecution had now turned persecutors on their ownaccount, and persecutors of the most terrible description. Not the Inquisitionof Seville, nor the German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy,were ever able to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that whichcast a cloud over the State of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made thisorganization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent, andyet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out against the Churchvanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or what had befallen him. Hiswife and his children awaited him at home, but no father ever returned to tellthem how he had fared at the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hastyact was followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be ofthis terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men wentabout in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the wilderness theydared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.
At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon therecalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards topervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The supply ofadult women was running short, and polygamy without a female population onwhich to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandiedabout—rumours of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions whereIndians had never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of theElders—women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the traces ofan unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangsof armed men, masked, stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in thedarkness. These tales and rumours took substance and shape, and werecorroborated and re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into adefinite name. To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of theDanite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible resultsserved to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it inspired in theminds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless society. The names of theparticipators in the deeds of blood and violence done under the name ofreligion were kept profoundly secret. The very friend to whom you communicatedyour misgivings as to the Prophet and his mission, might be one of those whowould 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 werenearest his heart.
One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields, when heheard 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 hismouth, for this was none other than the great Brigham Young himself. Full oftrepidation—for he knew that such a visit boded him littlegood—Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. The latter,however, received his salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern faceinto the sitting-room.
“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly fromunder his light-coloured eyelashes, “the true believers have been good friendsto you. We picked you up when you were starving in the desert, we shared ourfood with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share ofland, 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 shouldembrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages. This youpromised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you have neglected.”
“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands inexpostulation. “Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended at theTemple? Have I not——?”
“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking round him. “Call them in, that Imay 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 hadmy daughter to attend to my wants.”
“It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,” said the leader of theMormons. “She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found favour in theeyes of many who are high in the land.”
John Ferrier groaned internally.
“There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve—stories that sheis sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues. What is thethirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith? ‘Let every maiden ofthe true faith marry one of the elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits agrievous sin.’ This being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holycreed, 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 beendecided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would not haveher wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of all choice. We Elders havemany heifers,[1] but ourchildren must also be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son,and either of them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let herchoose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What sayyou to that?”
[1]Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred wives underthis endearing epithet.
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—sheis scarce of an age to marry.”
“She shall have a month to choose,” said Young, rising from his seat. “At theend of that time she shall give her answer.”
He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and flashingeyes. “It were better for you, John Ferrier,” he thundered, “that you and shewere now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra Blanco, than that you shouldput your weak wills against the orders of the Holy Four!”
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and Ferrierheard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.
He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he shouldbroach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon his, andlooking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her pale, frightenedface showed him that she had heard what had passed.
“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his look. “His voice rang throughthe house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?”
“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing her to him, and passing hisbroad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it up somehowor another. You don’t find your fancy kind o’ lessening for this chap, do you?”
A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.
“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you say you did. He’s a likelylad, and he’s a Christian, which is more than these folk here, in spite o’ alltheir praying and preaching. There’s a party starting for Nevada to-morrow, andI’ll manage to send him a message letting him know the hole we are in. If Iknow anything o’ that young man, he’ll be back here with a speed that wouldwhip 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 amfrightened, dear. One hears—one hears such dreadful stories about thosewho oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to them.”
“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father answered. “It will be time to lookout for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at the end ofthat, 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 thetruth, Lucy, it isn’t the first time I have thought of doing it. I don’t careabout knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their darned prophet. I’ma free-born American, and it’s all new to me. Guess I’m too old to learn. If hecomes browsing about this farm, he might chance to run up against a charge ofbuckshot 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’tyou fret yourself, my dearie, and don’t get your eyes swelled up, else he’ll bewalking into me when he sees you. There’s nothing to be afeared about, andthere’s no danger at all.”
John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone, but shecould not help observing that he paid unusual care to the fastening of thedoors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and loaded the rusty oldshotgun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.
CHAPTER IV.
A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.
On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet, JohnFerrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his acquaintance, who wasbound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him with his message to JeffersonHope. 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 easierin his mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.
As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to each ofthe posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering to find twoyoung men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, wasleaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. Theother, a bull-necked youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in frontof the window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both ofthem nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the rocking-chaircommenced the conversation.
“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is the son of Elder Drebber, andI’m Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert when the Lordstretched 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 nasalvoice; “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 solicitthe hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and to her.As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to methat my claim is the stronger one.”
“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not how manywives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given over his millsto me, and I am the richer man.”
“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the Lord removesmy father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I amyour elder, and am higher in the Church.”
“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking at hisown reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”
During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly ableto keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.
“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter summonsyou, 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 thiscompetition between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of honours bothto her and her father.
“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the door, andthere is the window. Which do you care to use?”
His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening, that hisvisitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old farmerfollowed 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 defiedthe 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 willarise and smite you!”
“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would haverushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and restrainedhim. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses’ hoofs told himthat they were beyond his reach.
“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from hisforehead; “I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the wife ofeither of them.”
“And so should I, father,” she answered, with spirit; “but Jefferson will soonbe here.”
“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we do notknow what their next move may be.”
It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and help shouldcome to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted daughter. In the wholehistory of the settlement there had never been such a case of rank disobedienceto the authority of the Elders. If minor errors were punished so sternly, whatwould be the fate of this arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and positionwould be of no avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself hadbeen spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He wasa 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 wasunnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter, however, and affected tomake light of the whole matter, though she, with the keen eye of love, sawplainly that he was ill at ease.
He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from Young as tohis 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 paperpinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over his chest. On it was printed, inbold 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 thiswarning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his servants sleptin an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been secured. He crumpled thepaper up and said nothing to his daughter, but the incident struck a chill intohis heart. The twenty-nine days were evidently the balance of the month whichYoung had promised. What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armedwith such mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struckhim 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 breakfastwhen Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the centre of the ceilingwas scrawled, with a burned stick apparently, the number 28. To his daughter itwas unintelligible, and he did not enlighten her. That night he sat up with hisgun and kept watch and ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in themorning 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 unseenenemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some conspicuous positionhow many days were still left to him out of the month of grace. Sometimes thefatal numbers appeared upon the walls, sometimes upon the floors, occasionallythey were on small placards stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. Withall his vigilance John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warningsproceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sightof them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look ofsome hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was for thearrival of the young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news of theabsentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there came no sign ofhim. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a driver shouted at histeam, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking that help had arrived atlast. At last, when he saw five give way to four and that again to three, helost heart, and abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with hislimited knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knewthat he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly watched andguarded, and none could pass along them without an order from the Council. Turnwhich way he would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung overhim. Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life itselfbefore he consented to what he regarded as his daughter’s dishonour.
He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles, andsearching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown the figure 2upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be the last of the allottedtime. What was to happen then? All manner of vague and terrible fancies filledhis imagination. And his daughter—what was to become of her after he wasgone? Was there no escape from the invisible network which was drawn all roundthem. He sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his ownimpotence.
What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound—low, butvery 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 fewmoments, and then the low insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidentlytapping very gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnightassassin 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 whichshook his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt andthrew the door open.
Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars weretwinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the farmer’seyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on the road was anyhuman being to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and toleft, until happening to glance straight down at his own feet he saw to hisastonishment a man lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legsall asprawl.
So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with hishand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first thought wasthat the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying man, but as hewatched it he saw it writhe along the ground and into the hall with therapidity and noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the house the man sprangto his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierceface and resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.
“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you scared me! Whatever made you come inlike that.”
“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I have had no time for bite or supfor eight-and-forty hours.” He flung himself upon the cold meat and bread whichwere still lying upon the table from his host’s supper, and devoured itvoraciously. “Does Lucy bear up well?” he asked, when he had satisfied hishunger.
“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 wayup to it. They may be darned sharp, but they’re not quite sharp enough to catcha Washoe hunter.”
John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a devotedally. He seized the young man’s leathery hand and wrung it cordially. “You’re aman to be proud of,” he said. “There are not many who would come to share ourdanger and our troubles.”
“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter answered. “I have a respect foryou, but if you were alone in this business I’d think twice before I put myhead into such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy that brings me here, and before harmcomes 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 amule 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 Citythrough the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that the servantsdo 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 themountain wells were few and far between. He had hardly completed hisarrangements before the farmer returned with his daughter all dressed and readyfor a start. The greeting between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minuteswere precious, and there was much to be done.
“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a low butresolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril, but hassteeled his heart to meet it. “The front and back entrances are watched, butwith 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 arewaiting. By daybreak we should be half-way through the mountains.”
“What if we are stopped,” asked Ferrier.
Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his tunic. “Ifthey are too many for us we shall take two or three of them with us,” he saidwith a sinister smile.
The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the darkenedwindow Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own, and which he wasnow about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved himself to the sacrifice,however, and the thought of the honour and happiness of his daughter outweighedany regret at his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, therustling trees and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it wasdifficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet thewhite face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his approachto the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.
Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scantyprovisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few of hermore valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and carefully, theywaited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by onepassed through into the little garden. With bated breath and crouching figuresthey stumbled across it, and gained the shelter of the hedge, which theyskirted until they came to the gap which opened into the cornfields. They hadjust reached this point when the young man seized his two companions anddragged 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 alynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the melancholy hootingof a mountain owl was heard within a few yards of them, which was immediatelyanswered by another hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vagueshadowy figure emerged from the gap for which they had been making, and utteredthe plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man appeared out of theobscurity.
“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first who appeared to be in authority. “Whenthe Whip-poor-Will 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 indifferent directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some form ofsign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died away in thedistance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his companions throughthe gap, led the way across the fields at the top of his speed, supporting andhalf-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 ofsentinels. 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. Beforereaching the town the hunter branched away into a rugged and narrow footpathwhich led to the mountains. Two dark jagged peaks loomed above them through thedarkness, and the defile which led between them was the Eagle Cañon in whichthe horses were awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked hisway among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, untilhe came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful animalshad been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon oneof the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope led the other along theprecipitous and dangerous path.
It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face Nature inher wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a thousand feet ormore, black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic columns upon its ruggedsurface like the ribs of some petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaosof boulders and debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran theirregular track, 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 inspite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were lightwithin them, for every step increased the distance between them and theterrible despotism from which they were flying.
They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the jurisdiction ofthe Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most desolate portion of thepass when the girl gave a startled cry, and pointed upwards. On a rock whichoverlooked the track, showing out dark and plain against the sky, there stood asolitary sentinel. He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his militarychallenge of “Who goes there?” rang through the silent ravine.
“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the riflewhich hung by his saddle.
They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down at themas if dissatisfied at their reply.
“By whose permission?” he asked.
“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught him thatthat was the highest authority to which he could refer.
“Nine from seven,” cried the sentinel.
“Seven from five,” returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering thecountersign which he had heard in the garden.
“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the voice from above. Beyond his postthe path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a trot. Lookingback, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon his gun, and knew thatthey had passed the outlying post of the chosen people, and that freedom laybefore them.
CHAPTER V.
THE AVENGING ANGELS.
All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular androck-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope’s intimateknowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track once more. Whenmorning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage beauty lay before them. Inevery direction the great snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over eachother’s shoulders to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on eitherside of them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over theirheads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor wasthe fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn withtrees and boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed, agreat rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes inthe silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a gallop.
As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the greatmountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until they wereall ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the hearts of thethree fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild torrent which swept outof a ravine they called a halt and watered their horses, while they partook ofa hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father would fain have rested longer, butJefferson Hope was inexorable. “They will be upon our track by this time,” hesaid. “Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest forthe remainder of our lives.”
During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and byevening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from theirenemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag, where the rocksoffered some protection from the chill wind, and there huddled together forwarmth, they enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were upand on their way once more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, andJefferson Hope began to think that they were fairly out of the reach of theterrible organization whose enmity they had incurred. He little knew how farthat iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close upon them and crushthem.
About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store ofprovisions 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 beforehad 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 hiscompanions might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feetabove the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered thehorses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out insearch of whatever chance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the oldman and the young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animalsstood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them fromhis view.
He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another withoutsuccess, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and otherindications, 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 indespair, when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill ofpleasure through his heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or fourhundred feet above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep inappearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn—for soit is called—was acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock which wereinvisible to the hunter; but fortunately it was heading in the oppositedirection, and had not perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifleupon a rock, and took a long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. Theanimal sprang into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of theprecipice, and then came crashing down into the valley beneath.
The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself withcutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy over hisshoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was already drawingin. He had hardly started, however, before he realized the difficulty whichfaced him. In his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines which wereknown to him, and it was no easy matter to pick out the path which he hadtaken. The valley in which he found himself divided and sub-divided into manygorges, which were so like each other that it was impossible to distinguish onefrom the other. He followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountaintorrent which he was sure that he had never seen before. Convinced that he hadtaken the wrong turn, he tried another, but with the same result. Night wascoming on rapidly, and it was almost dark before he at last found himself in adefile which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep tothe right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs on eitherside made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down with his burden, and wearyfrom his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping up his heart by the reflectionthat every step brought him nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enoughto 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. Evenin 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 absentnearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart he put his hands to his mouthand made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. Hepaused and listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clatteredup the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in countlessrepetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and again no whispercame back from the friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague,nameless dread came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically, dropping theprecious food in his agitation.
When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the fire hadbeen lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it hadevidently not been tended since his departure. The same dead silence stillreigned 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 terribledisaster had occurred during his absence—a disaster which had embracedthem all, and yet had left no traces behind it.
Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin round,and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He was essentiallya man of action, however, and speedily recovered from his temporary impotence.Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew itinto a flame, and proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. Theground was all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large partyof mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their tracksproved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carriedback both of his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuadedhimself that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object whichmade every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of thecamp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been therebefore. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly-dug grave. As theyoung 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 thepaper was brief, but to the point:
JOHN FERRIER,
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKECITY,
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 ifthere was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy had been carriedback by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming oneof the harem of the Elder’s son. As the young fellow realized the certainty ofher fate, and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, waslying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.
Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs fromdespair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least devote hislife to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hopepossessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learnedfrom 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 thoroughand complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His strongwill 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 thefood, and having stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last himfor a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he sethimself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the avengingangels.
For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he hadalready 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 onhis way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle Cañon, from which they hadcommenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could look down upon the home ofthe saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunthand fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, heobserved that there were flags in some of the principal streets, and othersigns of festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when heheard 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 hadrendered services at different times. He therefore accosted him when he got upto 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 wasdifficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly whiteface and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former days. Having,however, at last, satisfied himself as to his identity, the man’s surprisechanged to consternation.
“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as much as my own life is worth tobe seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from the Holy Four forassisting the Ferriers away.”
“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said, earnestly. “You must knowsomething of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you hold dear toanswer a few questions. We have always been friends. For God’s sake, don’trefuse to answer me.”
“What is it?” the Mormon asked uneasily. “Be quick. The very rocks have earsand the trees eyes.”
“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”
“She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you have nolife left in you.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and had sunkdown on the stone against which he had been leaning. “Married, you say?”
“Married yesterday—that’s what those flags are for on the EndowmentHouse. There was some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson as towhich was to have her. They’d both been in the party that followed them, andStangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the best claim; butwhen they argued it out in council, Drebber’s party was the stronger, so theProphet gave her over to him. No one won’t have her very long though, for I sawdeath in her face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are youoff, then?”
“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His facemight 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, strodeoff down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains to the haunts ofthe wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so fierce and so dangerous ashimself.
The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it was theterrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage into whichshe had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her head again, but pined away anddied within a month. Her sottish husband, who had married her principally forthe sake of John Ferrier’s property, did not affect any great grief at hisbereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with her thenight before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were grouped round thebier in the early hours of the morning, when, to their inexpressible fear andastonishment, the door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten manin tattered garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a word to thecowering women, he walked up to the white silent figure which had oncecontained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lipsreverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he took thewedding-ring from her finger. “She shall not be buried in that,” he cried witha fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be raised sprang down the stairs andwas gone. So strange and so brief was the episode, that the watchers might havefound it hard to believe it themselves or persuade other people of it, had itnot been for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her ashaving been a bride had disappeared.
For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading a strangewild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for vengeance whichpossessed him. Tales were told in the City of the weird figure which was seenprowling about the suburbs, and which haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Oncea bullet whistled through Stangerson’s window and flattened itself upon thewall within a foot of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliffa great boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death bythrowing himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long indiscovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led repeatedexpeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or killing their enemy,but always without success. Then they adopted the precaution of never going outalone or after nightfall, and of having their houses guarded. After a time theywere able to relax these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen oftheir 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 ofa hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge had taken suchcomplete 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 ironconstitution 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 dogamong the mountains, what was to become of his revenge then? And yet such adeath was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to playhis enemy’s game, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada mines, there torecruit his health and to amass money enough to allow him to pursue his objectwithout privation.
His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a combination ofunforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines for nearly five. Atthe end of that time, however, his memory of his wrongs and his craving forrevenge were quite as keen as on that memorable night when he had stood by JohnFerrier’s grave. Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt LakeCity, careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knewto be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been aschism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger membersof the Church having rebelled against the authority of the Elders, and theresult had been the secession of a certain number of the malcontents, who hadleft Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; andno one knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed toconvert a large part of his property into money, and that he had departed awealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There wasno clue at all, however, as to their whereabouts.
Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of revenge inthe 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 couldpick up, he travelled from town to town through the United States in quest ofhis enemies. Year passed into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but stillhe wandered on, a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the oneobject upon which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance wasrewarded. It was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance toldhim that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. Hereturned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all arranged. Itchanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his window, had recognized thevagrant in the street, and had read murder in his eyes. He hurried before ajustice of the peace, accompanied by Stangerson, who had become his privatesecretary, and represented to him that they were in danger of their lives fromthe jealousy and hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was takeninto 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 wasdeserted, and that he and his secretary had departed for Europe.
Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred urged himto continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and for some time he hadto return to work, saving every dollar for his approaching journey. At last,having collected enough to keep life in him, he departed for Europe, andtracked his enemies from city to city, working his way in any menial capacity,but never overtaking the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they haddeparted for Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they hadjust set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few dayslate, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded inrunning them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better thanquote the old hunter’s own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson’s Journal,to which we are already under such obligations.
CHAPTER VI.
A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.
Our prisoner’s furious resistance did not apparently indicate any ferocity inhis disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself powerless, he smiledin an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that he had not hurt any of us inthe scuffle. “I guess you’re going to take me to the police-station,” heremarked to Sherlock Holmes. “My cab’s at the door. If you’ll loose my legsI’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 propositionrather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word, andloosened the towel which we had bound round his ankles. He rose and stretchedhis legs, as though to assure himself that they were free once more. I rememberthat I thought to myself, as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a morepowerfully built man; and his dark sunburned face bore an expression ofdetermination 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 manfor it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger. “Theway 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 aninterest in the case and may as well stick to us.”
I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no attemptat escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his, and we followedhim. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and brought us in a veryshort time to our destination. We were ushered into a small chamber where apolice Inspector noted down our prisoner’s name and the names of the men withwhose murder he had been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotionalman, who went through his duties in a dull mechanical way. “The prisoner willbe 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 warnyou 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 yougentlemen 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’tsuicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?” He turned his fierce dark eyesupon 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 manacledwrists towards his chest.
I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing andcommotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to thrilland quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful engine was atwork. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noisewhich 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 weekabout it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days passed. Ithas been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure and under-feedingamong the Salt Lake Mountains. I’ve done my work now, and I don’t care how soonI go, but I should like to leave some account of the business behind me. Idon’t want to be remembered as a common cut-throat.”
The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to theadvisability 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 hisstatement,” 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 theword. “This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the tussle we had halfan hour ago has not mended matters. I’m on the brink of the grave, and I am notlikely to lie to you. Every word I say is the absolute truth, and how you useit is a matter of no consequence to me.”
With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began thefollowing remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical manner, asthough the events which he narrated were commonplace enough. I can vouch forthe accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had access to Lestrade’snote-book, in which the prisoner’s words were taken down exactly as they wereuttered.
“It don’t much matter to you why I hated these men,” he said; “it’s enough thatthey were guilty of the death of two human beings—a father and adaughter—and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own lives. Afterthe lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was impossible for meto 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 intoone. You’d have done the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had beenin my place.
“That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She wasforced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over it. I took themarriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his dying eyes should restupon that very ring, and that his last thoughts should be of the crime forwhich he was punished. I have carried it about with me, and have followed himand his accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought totire 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 haveperished, and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or todesire.
“They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to followthem. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found that I mustturn my hand to something for my living. Driving and riding are as natural tome as walking, so I applied at a cabowner’s office, and soon got employment. Iwas to bring a certain sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that Imight keep for myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrapealong somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that ofall the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I hada map beside me though, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels andstations, I got on pretty well.
“It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living; but Iinquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They were at aboarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the river. When once Ifound them out I knew that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard, andthere was no chance of their recognizing me. I would dog them and follow themuntil I saw my opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape meagain.
“They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about London, Iwas always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my cab, and sometimeson 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 behind hand 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 somechance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone, and neverafter nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every day, and never oncesaw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time, but Stangerson wasnot to be caught napping. I watched them late and early, but never saw theghost of a chance; but I was not discouraged, for something told me that thehour had almost come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might bursta little too soon and leave my work undone.
“At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the streetwas 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 Stangersonfollowed it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse and kept within sight ofthem, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared that they were going to shifttheir quarters. At Euston Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold myhorse, and followed them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpooltrain, and the guard answer that one had just gone and there would not beanother for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebberwas rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that Icould hear every word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had alittle business of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him hewould soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded himthat they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter wasa delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what Stangersonsaid to that, but the other burst out swearing, and reminded him that he wasnothing more than his paid servant, and that he must not presume to dictate tohim. On that the Secretary gave it up as a bad job, and simply bargained withhim that if he missed the last train he should rejoin him at Halliday’s PrivateHotel; to which Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform beforeeleven, and made his way out of the station.
“The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my enemieswithin my power. Together they could protect each other, but singly they wereat my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue precipitation. My plans werealready formed. There is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender hastime to realize who it is that strikes him, and why retribution has come uponhim. I had my plans arranged by which I should have the opportunity of makingthe man who had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. Itchanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking oversome houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in mycarriage. It was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval Ihad taken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of this Ihad access to at least one spot in this great city where I could rely uponbeing free from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was thedifficult problem which I had now to solve.
“He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying fornearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he staggered in hiswalk, 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 ayard of his driver the whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and throughmiles of streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in theTerrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was inreturning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so fromthe 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.”
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. Nextmoment 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 hadDrebber by the collar, and when they came to the head of the steps he gave hima 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 sohot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that thecur staggered away down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran asfar as the corner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. ‘Driveme to Halliday’s Private Hotel,’ said he.
“When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that I fearedlest 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 intothe country, and there in some deserted lane have my last interview with him. Ihad almost decided upon this, when he solved the problem for me. The craze fordrink 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 untilclosing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game wasin my own hands.
“Don’t imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only havebeen rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself to do it. Ihad long determined that he should have a show for his life if he chose to takeadvantage of it. Among the many billets which I have filled in America duringmy wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at YorkCollege. One day the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed hisstudents some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some SouthAmerican arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meantinstant death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, andwhen they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly gooddispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill Iput in a box with a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at thetime that when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of oneof these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite asdeadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a handkerchief. From thatday I had always my pill boxes about with me, and the time had now come when Iwas to use them.
“It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard andraining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within—so gladthat I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you gentlemenhave ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty long years, andthen suddenly found it within your reach, you would understand my feelings. Ilit 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 JohnFerrier 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 BrixtonRoad.
“There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the drippingof the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber all huddledtogether in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, ‘It’s time to get out,’ Isaid.
“‘All right, cabby,’ said he.
“I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned, for hegot out without another word, and followed me down the garden. I had to walkbeside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little top-heavy. When wecame to the door, I opened it, and led him into the front room. I give you myword 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 waxcandle which I had brought with me. ‘Now, Enoch Drebber,’ I continued, turningto 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 ahorror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which showed me thathe knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I saw the perspirationbreak out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight, Ileaned my back against the door and laughed loud and long. I had always knownthat vengeance would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment ofsoul 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 anend, for either you or I shall never see to-morrow’s sun rise.’ He shrunk stillfurther 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 Ibelieve I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not gushed from mynose and relieved me.
“‘What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?’ I cried, locking the door, andshaking the key in his face. ‘Punishment has been slow in coming, but it hasovertaken you at last.’ I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He would havebegged 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? Whatmercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her slaughteredfather, 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 boxbefore him. ‘Let the high God judge between us. Choose and eat. There is deathin one and life in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let us see if thereis 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 andheld it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed the other, andwe stood facing one another in silence for a minute or more, waiting to seewhich was to live and which was to die. Shall I ever forget the look which cameover his face when the first warning pangs told him that the poison was in hissystem? I laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy’s marriage ring in front of hiseyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasmof 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 turnedhim over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There was nomovement. He was dead!
“The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of it. Idon’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 remembered a German being found in NewYork with RACHE written up above him, and it was argued at the time in thenewspapers that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that whatpuzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in myown blood and printed it on a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked downto my cab and found that there was nobody about, and that the night was stillvery wild. I had driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket inwhich I usually kept Lucy’s ring, and found that it was not there. I wasthunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinkingthat 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 Iwas ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring. When I arrived there, Iwalked right into the arms of a police-officer who was coming out, and onlymanaged 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 asmuch for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier’s debt. I knew that he wasstaying at Halliday’s Private Hotel, and I hung about all day, but he nevercame out. I fancy that he suspected something when Drebber failed to put in anappearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If hethought he could keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. Isoon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next morning Itook advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the hotel,and so made my way into his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up andtold him that the hour had come when he was to answer for the life he had takenso long before. I described Drebber’s death to him, and I gave him the samechoice of the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety whichthat offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In self-defenceI stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same in any case, forProvidence would never have allowed his guilty hand to pick out anything butthe poison.
“I have little more to say, and it’s as well, for I am about done up. I went oncabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I could save enoughto take me back to America. I was standing in the yard when a ragged youngsterasked if there was a cabby there called Jefferson Hope, and said that his cabwas wanted by a gentleman at 221B, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting noharm, and the next thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on mywrists, and as neatly shackled as ever I saw in my life. That’s the whole of mystory, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I amjust as much an officer of justice as you are.”
So thrilling had the man’s narrative been, and his manner was so impressivethat we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional detectives,blasé as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to be keenlyinterested in the man’s story. When he finished we sat for some minutes in astillness which was only broken by the scratching of Lestrade’s pencil as hegave 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 ringwhich I advertised?”
The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. “I can tell my own secrets,” hesaid, “but I don’t get other people into trouble. I saw your advertisement, andI thought it might be a plant, or it might be the ring which I wanted. Myfriend 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 becomplied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before the magistrates,and your attendance will be required. Until then I will be responsible forhim.” He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was led off by a coupleof warders, while my friend and I made our way out of the Station and took acab back to Baker Street.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CONCLUSION.
We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the Thursday; butwhen the Thursday came there was no occasion for our testimony. A higher Judgehad taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson Hope had been summoned before atribunal where strict justice would be meted out to him. On the very nightafter his capture the aneurism burst, and he was found in the morning stretchedupon the floor of the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he hadbeen able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on workwell done.
“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,” Holmes remarked, as wechatted 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 mycompanion, bitterly. “The question is, what can you make people believe thatyou have done. Never mind,” he continued, more brightly, after a pause. “Iwould not have missed the investigation for anything. There has been no bettercase within my recollection. Simple as it was, there were several mostinstructive 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 withoutany help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able to lay my hand upon thecriminal within three days.”
“That is true,” said I.
“I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is usually aguide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this sort, the grandthing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very useful accomplishment,and a very easy one, but people do not practise it much. In the every-dayaffairs of life it is more useful to reason forwards, and so the other comes tobe neglected. There are fifty who can reason synthetically for one who canreason 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. Mostpeople, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what theresult would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and arguefrom them 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 innerconsciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power iswhat I mean when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically.”
“I understand,” said I.
“Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to findeverything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the differentsteps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached the house, asyou know, on foot, and with my mind entirely free from all impressions. Inaturally began by examining the roadway, and there, as I have alreadyexplained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained byinquiry, must have been there during the night. I satisfied myself that it wasa cab and not a private carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. Theordinary 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 takingimpressions. 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 nobranch of detective science which is so important and so much neglected as theart of tracing footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, andmuch practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of theconstables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first passedthrough 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 otherscoming upon the top of them. In this way my second link was formed, which toldme that the nocturnal visitors were two in number, one remarkable for hisheight (as I calculated from the length of his stride), and the otherfashionably dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression left by hisboots.
“On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted manlay 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 uponhis face assured me that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Menwho die from heart disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chanceexhibit agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man’s lips Idetected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had hadpoison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him fromthe hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of exclusion, I hadarrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would meet the facts. Do notimagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The forcible administration ofpoison is by no means a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky inOdessa, 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 theobject of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics, then, or was it awoman? That was the question which confronted me. I was inclined from the firstto the latter supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do theirwork 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 hadbeen there all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a politicalone, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription wasdiscovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thingwas too evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled thequestion. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of some dead orabsent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson whether he had enquiredin his telegram to Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber’s formercareer. He answered, you remember, in the negative.
“I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which confirmed mein my opinion as to the murderer’s height, and furnished me with the additionaldetails as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the length of his nails. I had alreadycome to the conclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle, that the bloodwhich covered the floor had burst from the murderer’s nose in his excitement. Icould perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. Itis seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this waythrough emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably arobust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.
“Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. Itelegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry to thecircumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer wasconclusive. It told me that Drebber had already applied for the protection ofthe law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this sameHope was at present in Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mysteryin 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 thehouse with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven the cab. Themarks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered on in a way which wouldhave been impossible had there been anyone in charge of it. Where, then, couldthe driver be, unless he were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to supposethat any sane man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as itwere, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one manwished to dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than toturn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible conclusionthat 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. Onthe contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be likely to drawattention to himself. He would, probably, for a time at least, continue toperform his duties. There was no reason to suppose that he was going under anassumed name. Why should he change his name in a country where no one knew hisoriginal one? I therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sentthem systematically to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted outthe man that I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I tookadvantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The murder of Stangersonwas an incident which was entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in anycase have been prevented. Through it, as you know, I came into possession ofthe pills, the existence of which I had already surmised. You see the wholething is a chain of logical sequences without a break or flaw.”
“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be publicly recognized. Youshould 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!”
It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed wasdevoted to the case in question.
“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational treat through the sudden deathof the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber and ofMr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will probably be never knownnow, though we are informed upon good authority that the crime was the resultof 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 LatterDay Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. Ifthe case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most strikingmanner the efficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lessonto all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds at home, andnot to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret that the credit ofthis smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in the roomsof a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an amateur, shown sometalent in the detective line, and who, with such instructors, may hope in timeto attain to some degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial ofsome sort will be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition oftheir 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 publicshall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself contented by theconsciousness of success, like the Roman miser—
“‘Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.’”
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