{original for comparison}
{3} {...Holmes": this extra quote is in the text.}
{---------------------- End of Textual Notes ----------------------}
{------------------------------------------------------------------}
{BLAC, Rev 4, 1/17/96 rms, 3rd proofing}
{The Adventure of the Black Peter, Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine, 27 (March 1904)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires
[email protected]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}
VI. -- The Adventure of Black Peter.
I HAVE never known my friend to be in better form, both
mental and physical, than in the year '95. His increasing
fame had brought with it an immense practice, and I should
be guilty of an indiscretion if I were even to hint at the
identity of some of the illustrious clients who crossed our
humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like
all great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in
the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known
him claim any large reward for his inestimable services.
So unworldly was he -- or so capricious -- that he
frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy
where the problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while
he would devote weeks of most intense application to the
affairs of some humble client whose case presented those
strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his
imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous
succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from
his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal
Tosca -- an inquiry which was carried out by him at the
express desire of His Holiness the Pope -- down to his
arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which
removed a plague-spot from the East-end of London. Close
on the heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of
Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances which
surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of
the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which
did not include some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July my friend had been absent so
often and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had
something on hand. The fact that several rough-looking men
called during that time and inquired for Captain Basil made
me understand that Holmes was working somewhere under one
of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed
his own formidable identity. He had at least five small
refuges in different parts of London in which he was able
to change his personality. He said nothing of his business
to me, and it was not my habit to force a confidence.
The first positive sign which he gave me of the direction
which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one.
He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine,
when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge
barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.
"Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried. "You don't mean to say
that you have been walking about London with that thing?"
"I drove to the butcher's and back."
"The butcher's?"
"And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before
breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not
guess the form that my exercise has taken."
"I will not attempt it."
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
"If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop you
would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the
ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves furiously
stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that energetic
person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion
of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow.
Perhaps you would care to try?"
"Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"
"Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon
the mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire
last night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us."
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of
age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect
bearing of one who was accustomed to official uniform.
I recognised him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police
inspector for whose future Holmes had high hopes, while he
in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for
the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's
brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep
dejection.
"No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round.
I spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."
"And what had you to report?"
"Failure, sir; absolute failure."
"You have made no progress?"
"None."
"Dear me! I must have a look at the matter."
"I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my
first big chance, and I am at my wits' end. For goodness'
sake come down and lend me a hand."
"Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all
the available evidence, including the report of the
inquest, with some care. By the way, what do you make of
that tobacco-pouch found on the scene of the crime? Is
there no clue there?"
Hopkins looked surprised.
"It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.
And it was of seal-skin -- and he an old sealer."
"But he had no pipe."
"No, sir, we could find no pipe; indeed, he smoked very little.
And yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."
"No doubt. I only mention it because if I had been
handling the case I should have been inclined to make that
the starting-point of my investigation. However, my friend
Dr. Watson knows nothing of this matter, and I should be
none the worse for hearing the sequence of events once more.
Just give us some short sketch of the essentials."
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
"I have a few dates here which will give you the career of
the dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45 --
fifty years of age. He was a most daring and successful
seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he commanded the steam
sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee. He had then had several
successful voyages in succession, and in the following
year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for some
years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman's
Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for
six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.
"There were some most singular points about the man.
In ordinary life he was a strict Puritan -- a silent, gloomy
fe
llow. His household consisted of his wife, his daughter,
aged twenty, and two female servants. These last were
continually changing, for it was never a very cheery
situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing.
The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit
on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to drive
his wife and his daughter out of doors in the middle of the
night, and flog them through the park until the whole
village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.
"He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,
who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon
his conduct. In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before
you found a more dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have
heard that he bore the same character when he commanded his
ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the
name was given him, not only on account of his swarthy
features and the colour of his huge beard, but for the
humours which were the terror of all around him. I need
not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his
neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of
sorrow about his terrible end.
"You must have read in the account of the inquest about the
man's cabin, Mr. Holmes; but perhaps your friend here has
not heard of it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse --
he always called it 'the cabin' -- a few hundred yards
from his house, and it was here that he slept every night.
It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten.
He kept the key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it
himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the threshold.
There are small windows on each side, which were covered by
curtains and never opened. One of these windows was turned
towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and
wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's the
window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of
positive evidence that came out at the inquest.
"You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from
Forest Row about one o'clock in the morning -- two days
before the murder -- stopped as he passed the grounds and
looked at the square of light still shining among the
trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned
sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this
shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew
well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was
short and bristled forwards in a way very different from
that of the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours
in the public-house, and it is some distance from the road
to the window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the
crime was done upon the Wednesday.
"On the Tuesday Peter Carey was in one of his blackest
moods, flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild
beast. He roamed about the house, and the women ran for it
when they heard him coming. Late in the evening he went
down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following
morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard
a most fearful yell from that direction, but it was no
unusual thing for him to bawl and shout when he was in
drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven one of
the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but so
great was the terror which the man caused that it was
midday before anyone would venture down to see what had
become of him. Peeping into the open door they saw a sight
which sent them flying with white faces into the village.
Within an hour I was on the spot and had taken over the case.
"Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr.
Holmes, but I give you my word that I got a shake when I
put my head into that little house. It was droning like a
harmonium with the flies and bluebottles, and the floor and
walls were like a slaughter-house. He had called it a
cabin, and a cabin it was sure enough, for you would have
thought that you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end,
a sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture of the _Sea Unicorn_,
a line of log-books on a shelf, all exactly as one would expect
to find it in a captain's room. And there in the middle of it
was the man himself, his face twisted like a lost soul in torment,
and his great brindled beard stuck upwards in his agony.
Right through his broad breast a steel harpoon had been driven,
and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him.
He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite
dead, and had been so from the instant that he had uttered that
last yell of agony.
"I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I
permitted anything to be moved I examined most carefully
the ground outside, and also the floor of the room. There
were no footmarks."
"Meaning that you saw none?"
"I assure you, sir, that there were none."
"My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I
have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying
creature. As long as the criminal remains upon two legs
so long must there be some indentation, some abrasion,
some trifling displacement which can be detected by
the scientific searcher. It is incredible that this
blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have
aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that
there were some objects which you failed to overlook?"
The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical
comments.
"I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes.
However, that's past praying for now. Yes, there were
several objects in the room which called for special
attention. One was the harpoon with which the deed was
committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the
wall. Two others remained there, and there was a vacant
place for the third. On the stock was engraved 'Ss. _Sea
Unicorn_, Dundee.' This seemed to establish that the crime
had been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer
had seized the first weapon which came in his way. The
fact that the crime was committed at two in the morning,
and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he
had an appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by
the fact that a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood
upon the table."
"Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences are permissible.
Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"
"Yes; there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on
the sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however,
since the decanters were full, and it had therefore not
been used."
"For all that its presence has some significance," said
Holmes
. "However, let us hear some more about the objects
which do seem to you to bear upon the case."
"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."
"What part of the table?"
"It lay in the middle. It was of coarse seal-skin -- the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it.
Inside was 'P.C.' on the flap. There was half an ounce of
strong ship's tobacco in it."
"Excellent! What more?"
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered
note-book. The outside was rough and worn, the leaves
discoloured. On the first page were written the initials
"J.H.N." and the date "1883." Holmes laid it on the table
and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I
gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the
printed letters "C.P.R.," and then came several sheets of
numbers. Another heading was Argentine, another Costa
Rica, and another San Paulo, each with pages of signs and
figures after it.
"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.
"They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities.
I thought that 'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker,
and that 'C.P.R.' may have been his client."
"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his
thigh with his clenched hand.
"What a fool I have been!" he cried. "Of course, it is as
you say. Then 'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve.
I have already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can
find no one in 1883 either in the House or among the outside
brokers whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that
the clue is the most important one that I hold. You will admit,
Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are
those of the second person who was present -- in other words,
of the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into
the case of a document relating to large masses of valuable
securities gives us for the first time some indication of a
motive for the crime."
Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken
aback by this new development.
"I must admit both your points," said he. "I confess that
this note-book, which did not appear at the inquest,
modifies any views which I may have formed. I had come to
a theory of the crime in which I can find no place for this.
Have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities
here mentioned?"
"Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear
that the complete register of the stockholders of these
South American concerns is in South America, and that some
weeks must elapse before we can trace the shares."
Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with
his magnifying lens.
"Surely there is some discoloration here," said he.
"Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked
the book off the floor."
"Was the blood-stain above or below?"
"On the side next the boards."
"Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after
the crime was committed."
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I
conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his
hurried flight. It lay near the door."
"I suppose that none of these securities have been found
among the property of the dead man?"
"No, sir."
"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"
"No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."
"Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case.
Then there was a knife, was there not?"
"A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet
of the dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her
husband's property."
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
"Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come
out and have a look at it."
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
"Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my