observe where the bullet went?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust,
for it passed right through the head and flattened itself
on the wall. I picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"
Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you
perceive, Watson. There's genius in that, for who would
expect to find such a thing fired from an air-gun. All
right, Mrs. Hudson, I am much obliged for your assistance.
And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat once more,
for there are several points which I should like to discuss
with you."
He had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the
Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he
took from his effigy.
"The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness
nor his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he
inspected the shattered forehead of his bust.
"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack
through the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I
expect that there are few better in London. Have you heard
the name?"
"No, I have not."
"Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember
aright, you had not heard the name of Professor James
Moriarty, who had one of the great brains of the century.
Just give me down my index of biographies from the shelf."
He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair
and blowing great clouds from his cigar.
"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty
himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here
is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory,
and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the
waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our
friend of to-night."
He handed over the book, and I read: "_Moran, Sebastian,
Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore Pioneers.
Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once
British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of 'Heavy Game of
the Western Himalayas,' 1881; 'Three Months in the Jungle,'
1884. Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian,
the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club."
On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:
"The second most dangerous man in London."
"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume.
"The man's career is that of an honourable soldier."
"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he
did well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story
is still told in India how he crawled down a drain after a
wounded man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson,
which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop
some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in
humans. I have a theory that the individual represents in
his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and
that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some
strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree.
The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history
of his own family."
"It is surely rather fanciful."
"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel
Moran began to go wrong. Without any open scandal he still
made India too hot to hold him. He retired, came to
London, and again acquired an evil name. It was at this
time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty, to whom
for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied
him liberally with money and used him only in one or two
very high-class jobs which no ordinary criminal could have
undertaken. You may have some recollection of the death of
Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am sure
Moran was at the bottom of it; but nothing could be proved.
So cleverly was the Colonel concealed that even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up we could not incriminate him.
You remember at that date, when I called upon you in your
rooms, how I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No
doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was
doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun,
and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world
would be behind it. When we were in Switzerland he
followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly he who
gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.
"You may think that I read the papers with some attention
during my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance
of laying him by the heels. So long as he was free in
London my life would really not have been worth living.
Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and
sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I
do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should myself be
in the dock. There was no use appealing to a magistrate.
They cannot interfere on the strength of what would appear
to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing.
But I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or
later I should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald
Adair. My chance had come at last! Knowing what I did,
was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done it? He had
played cards with the lad; he had followed him home from
the club; he had shot him through the open window. There
was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone are enough to put
his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was seen by
the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the Colonel's
attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my
sudden return with his crime and to be terribly alarmed.
I was sure that he would make an attempt to get me out of the
way _at once_, and would bring round his murderous weapon
for that purpose. I left him an excellent mark in the
window, and, having warned the police that they might be
needed -- by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence
in that doorway with unerring accuracy -- I took up what
seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never
dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack.
Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain for me to
explain?"
"Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what was
Colonel Moran's motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald
Adair."
"Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of
conjecture where the most logical mind may be at fault.
Each may form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence,
and yours is as likely to be correct as mine."
"You have formed one, then?"
"I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts.
It came out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair
had between them won a considerable amoun
t of money. Now,
Moran undoubtedly played foul -- of that I have long been
aware. I believe that on the day of the murder Adair had
discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had
spoken to him privately, and had threatened to expose him
unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the club
and promised not to play cards again. It is unlikely that
a youngster like Adair would at once make a hideous scandal
by exposing a well-known man so much older than himself.
Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his
clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten
card gains. He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time
was endeavouring to work out how much money he should
himself return, since he could not profit by his partner's
foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should
surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing with
these names and coins. Will it pass?"
"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."
"It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile,
come what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more, the
famous air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland
Yard Museum, and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to
devote his life to examining those interesting little
problems which the complex life of London so plentifully
presents."
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{------------------- End of Text ------------------------}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{------------------ Textual Notes -----------------------}
{Source: The Strand Magazine 26 (Oct. 1903)}
{1} {"our little adventures": is "your little fairy-tales"}
{in Doub.}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{--------------- End Textual Notes ----------------------}
{--------------------------------------------------------}
{NORW, Rev 4, 1/17/96 rms, 3rd proofing}
{The Adventure of the Norwood Builder, Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine, 26 (Nov. 1903)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires
[email protected]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}
II. -- The Adventure of the Norwood Builder.
"FROM the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, "London has become a singularly
uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented
Professor Moriarty."
"I can hardly think that you would find many decent
citizens to agree with you," I answered.
"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile,
as he pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table.
"The community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser,
save the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has
gone. With that man in the field one's morning paper
presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the
smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it
was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was
there, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web
remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre.
Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage -- to
the man who held the clue all could be worked into one
connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world no capital in Europe offered the advantages
which London then possessed. But now ----" He shrugged
his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of
things which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some
months, and I, at his request, had sold my practice and
returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street.
A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small
Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little
demur the highest price that I ventured to ask -- an
incident which only explained itself some years later when
I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes's,
and that it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he
had stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this
period includes the case of the papers of Ex-President
Murillo, and also the shocking affair of the Dutch
steamship _Friesland_, which so nearly cost us both our
lives. His cold and proud nature was always averse,
however, to anything in the shape of public applause, and
he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further
word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been
removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in
a leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a
hollow drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the
outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the
stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young
man, pale, dishevelled, and palpitating, burst into the
room. He looked from one to the other of us, and under our
gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me.
I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector
McFarlane."
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain
both his visit and its manner; but I could see by my
companion's unresponsive face that it meant no more to him
than to me.
"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his
case across. "I am sure that with your symptoms my friend
Dr. Watson here would prescribe a sedative. The weather
has been so very warm these last few days. Now, if you
feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you would
sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and quietly
who you are and what it is that you want. You mentioned
your name as if I should recognise it, but I assure you
that, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor,
a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing
whatever about you."
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not
difficult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe
the untidiness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the
watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them.
Our client, however, stared in amazement.
"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes, and in addition I am the
most unfortunate man at this moment in London. For
Heaven's sake don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come
to arrest me before I have finished
my story, make them
give me time so that I may tell you the whole truth. I
could go to gaol happy if I knew that you were working for
me outside."
"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati --
most interesting. On what charge do you expect to be
arrested?"
"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood."
My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was
not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
"Dear me," said he; "it was only this moment at breakfast
that I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that
sensational cases had disappeared out of our papers."
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked
up the _Daily Telegraph_, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.
"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a
glance what the errand is on which I have come to you this
morning. I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in
every man's mouth." He turned it over to expose the
central page. "Here it is, and with your permission I will
read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The
head-lines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood.
Disappearance of a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of Murder
and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is the clue
which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know
that it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from
London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only
waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my
mother's heart -- it will break her heart!" He wrung his
hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backwards and
forwards in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of
being the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was
flaxen-haired and handsome in a washed-out negative
fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a clean-shaven face,
with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been about
twenty-seven; his dress and bearing that of a gentleman.
From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the
bundle of endorsed papers which proclaimed his profession.
"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson,
would you have the kindness to take the paper and to read
me the paragraph in question?"
Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had
quoted I read the following suggestive narrative:--
Late last night, or early this morning, an incident
occurred at Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a
serious crime. Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident
of that suburb, where he has carried on his business as a
builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,
fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at
the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the
reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn
from the business, in which he is said to have amassed
considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists,
however, at the back of the house, and last night, about
twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks
was on fire. The engines were soon upon the spot, but the
dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible to
arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely
consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications
seem to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at
the absence of the master of the establishment from the
scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed
that he had disappeared from the house. An examination of
his room revealed that the bed had not been slept in, that
a safe which stood in it was open, that a number of
important papers were scattered about the room, and,
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle,
slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an
oaken walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon