mind."
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
"It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he.
"But even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless.
Watson, if you can spare the time I should be very glad of
your company. If you will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we
shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a quarter of an hour."
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some
miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were
once part of that great forest which for so long held the
Saxon invaders at bay -- the impenetrable "weald," for
sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast sections of it
have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled
to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North have
absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past.
Here in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill stood a
long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive
running through the fields. Nearer the road, and
surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a small outhouse,
one window and the door facing in our direction. It was
the scene of the murder!
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he
introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of
the murdered man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the
furtive look of terror in the depths of her red-rimmed
eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which
she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,
fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as
she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down.
It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made
for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we
found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way
along a path which had been worn across the fields by the
feet of the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the
farther side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket,
and had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of
attention and surprise upon his face.
"Someone has been tampering with it," he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut
and the scratches showed white through the paint, as if
they had been that instant done. Holmes had been examining
the window.
"Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has
failed to make his way in. He must have been a very poor
burglar."
"This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector;
"I could swear that these marks were not here yesterday
evening."
"Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.
"Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin.
What do you think of it, Mr. Holmes?"
"I think that fortune is very kind to us."
"You mean that the person will come again?"
"It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open.
He tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife.
He could not manage it. What would he do?"
"Come again next night with a more useful tool."
"So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the
furniture within the little room still stood as it had
been on the night of the crime. For two hours, with most
intense concentration, Holmes examined every object in
turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a
successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.
"Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"
"No; I have moved nothing."
"Something has been taken. There is less dust in this
corner of the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a
book lying on its side. It may have been a box. Well,
well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in these
beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds
and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins,
and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night."
It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little
ambuscade. Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut
open, but Holmes was of the opinion that this would rouse
the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a perfectly
simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it
back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not
inside the hut, but outside it among the bushes which grew
round the farther window. In this way we should be able to
watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his object
was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water pool and waits for the coming of the
thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature was it which
might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce
tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard
with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some
skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting
for whatever might come. At first the steps of a few
belated villagers, or the sound of voices from the village,
lightened our vigil; but one by one these interruptions
died away and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save for
the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the
progress of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a
fine rain falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp
click came from the direction of the gate. Someone had
entered the drive. Again there was a long silence,
and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when a
stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and
a moment later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man
was trying to force the lock! This time his skill was
greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden snap
and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the
interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes
were all riveted upon the scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with
a black moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of
his face. He could n
ot have been much above twenty years
of age. I have never seen any human being who appeared to
be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly
chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He was
dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and
knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view
into one of the corners. He returned with a large book,
one of the log-books which formed a line upon the shelves.
Leaning on the table he rapidly turned over the leaves of
this volume until he came to the entry which he sought.
Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed
the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light.
He had hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkins's hand
was on the fellow's collar, and I heard his loud gasp of
terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
re-lit, and there was our wretched captive shivering and
cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon
the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the
other.
"Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you,
and what do you want here?"
The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort
at self-composure.
"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I
am connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey.
I assure you that I am innocent."
"We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all,
what is your name?"
"It is John Hopley Neligan."
I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.
"What are you doing here?"
"Can I speak confidentially?"
"No, certainly not."
"Why should I tell you?"
"If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial."
The young man winced.
"Well, I will tell you," he said. "Why should I not?
And yet I hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new
lease of life. Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"
I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but
Holmes was keenly interested.
"You mean the West-country bankers," said he. "They failed
for a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall,
and Neligan disappeared."
"Exactly. Neligan was my father."
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it
seemed a long gap between an absconding banker and Captain
Peter Carey pinned against the wall with one of his own
harpoons. We all listened intently to the young man's words.
"It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had
retired. I was only ten years of age at the time, but I
was old enough to feel the shame and horror of it all.
It has always been said that my father stole all the
securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief
that if he were given time in which to realize them all
would be well and every creditor paid in full. He started
in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant was
issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when
he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the
securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come
back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted
him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him
again. Both the yacht and he vanished utterly. We
believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the
securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom
of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago
that some of the securities which my father had with him
have reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our
amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at
last, after many doublings and difficulties, I discovered
that the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the
owner of this hut.
"Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found
that he had been in command of a whaler which was due to
return from the Arctic seas at the very time when my father
was crossing to Norway. The autumn of that year was a
stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly
gales. My father's yacht may well have been blown to the
north, and there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If
that were so, what had become of my father? In any case,
if I could prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my
father had not sold them, and that he had no view to
personal profit when he took them.
"I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the
captain, but it was at this moment that his terrible death
occurred. I read at the inquest a description of his
cabin, in which it stated that the old log-books of his
vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I could
see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board
the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the mystery of my
father's fate. I tried last night to get at these
log-books, but was unable to open the door. To-night I
tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the pages which
deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was
at that moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands."
"Is that all?" asked Hopkins.
"Yes, that is all." His eyes shifted as he said it.
"You have nothing else to tell us?"
He hesitated.
"No; there is nothing."
"You have not been here before last night?"
"No."
"Then how do you account for _that_?" cried Hopkins, as he
held up the damning note-book, with the initials of our
prisoner on the first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands
and trembled all over.
"Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know.
I thought I had lost it at the hotel."
"That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else
you have to say you must say in court. You will walk down
with me now to the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am
very much obliged to you and to your friend for coming down
to help me. As it turns out your presence was unnecessary,
and I would have brought the case to this successful issue
without you; but none the less I am very grateful. Rooms
have been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we
can all walk down to the village together."
"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes,
as we travelled back next morning.
"I can see that you are not satisfied."
"Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied.
At the same time Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend
themselves to me. I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins.
I had hoped for better things from him. One should always
look for a possible alternative and provide against it.
It is the first rule of criminal investigation."
"What, then, is the alternative?"
"The line of investigation which I have myself been
pursuing. It may give us nothing. I cannot tell.
But at least I shall follow it to the end."
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street.
He snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into
a triumphant chuckle of laughter.
"Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you
telegraph forms? Just write a couple of messages for me:
'Sumner, Shipping Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men
on, to arrive ten to-morrow morning. -- Basil.' That's my
name in those parts. The other is: 'Inspector Stanley
Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to
come. -- Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it
completely from my presence. To-morrow I trust that we
shall hear the last of it for ever."
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared,
and we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which
Mrs. Hudson had prepared. The young detective was in high
spirits at his success.
"You really think that your solution must be correct?"
asked Holmes.
"I could not imagine a more complete case."
"It did not seem to me conclusive."
"You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask
for?"
"Does your explanation cover every point?"
"Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the
Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came
on the pretence of playing golf. His room was on the
ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked. That
very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey
at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the
harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out
of the hut, dropping the note-book which he had brought
with him in order to question Peter Carey about these
different securities. You may have observed that some of
them were marked with ticks, and the others -- the great
majority -- were not. Those which are ticked have been
traced on the London market; but the others presumably
were still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan,
according to his own account, was anxious to recover them
in order to do the right thing by his father's creditors.
After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut again
for some time; but at last he forced himself to do so in
order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely
that is all simple and obvious?"
Holmes smiled and shook his head.
"It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and
that is that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you
tried to drive a harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut,
my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these details.
My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole
morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and
requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was
delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon
sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic
{1} youth was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he
the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with Black Peter in
the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen on
the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins; it is
another and a more formidable person for whom we must seek."
The detective's face had grown longer and longer during
Holmes's speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all
crumbling about him. But he would not abandon his position
without a struggle.
"You can't deny that Neligan was present that night,
Mr. Holmes. The book will prove that. I fancy that I have