The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

had drawn from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly

  man strode out from the gate with a hunting-crop

  swinging in his hand.

  "What's this, Dawson!" he cried. "No gossiping! Go

  about your business! And you, what the devil do you

  want here?"

  "Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said Holmes

  in the sweetest of voices.

  "I've no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no

  stranger here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your

  heels."

  Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the

  trainer's ear. He started violently and flushed to

  the temples.

  "It's a lie!" he shouted, "an infernal lie!"

  "Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or

  talk it over in your parlor?"

  "Oh, come in if you wish to."

  Holmes smiled. "I shall not keep you more than a few

  minutes, Watson," said he. "Now, Mr. Brown, I am

  quite at your disposal."

  It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into

  grays before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never

  have I seen such a change as had been brought about in

  Silas Brown in that short time. His face was ashy

  pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and

  his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a

  branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner

  was all gone too, and he cringed along at my

  companion's side like a dog with its master.

  "You instructions will be done. It shall all be

  done," said he.

  "There must be no mistake," said Holmes, looking round

  at him. The other winced as he read the menace in his

  eyes.

  "Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there.

  Should I change it first or not?"

  Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing.

  "No, don't," said he; "I shall write to you about it.

  No tricks, now, or--"

  "Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!"

  "Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me

  to-morrow." He turned upon his heel, disregarding the

  trembling hand which the other held out to him, and we

  set off for King's Pyland.

  "A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and

  sneak than Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,"

  remarked Holmes as we trudged along together.

  "He has the horse, then?"

  "He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him

  so exactly what his actions had been upon that morning

  that he is convinced that I was watching him. Of

  course you observed the peculiarly square toes in the

  impressions, and that his own boots exactly

  corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate

  would have dared to do such a thing. I described to

  him how, when according to his custom he was the first

  down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the

  moor. How he went out to it, and his astonishment at

  recognizing, from the white forehead which has given

  the favorite its name, that chance had put in his

  power the only horse which could beat the one upon

  which he had put his money. Then I described how his

  first impulse had been to lead him back to King's

  Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he could

  hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had

  led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told

  him every detail he gave it up and thought only of

  saving his own skin."

  "But his stables had been searched?"

  "Oh, and old horse-fakir like him has many a dodge."

  "But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his

  power now, since he has every interest in injuring

  it?"

  "My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his

  eye. He knows that his only hope of mercy is to

  produce it safe."

  "Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be

  likely to show much mercy in any case."

  "The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow

  my own methods, and tell as much or as little as I

  choose. That is the advantage of being unofficial. I

  don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but the

  Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to

  me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at

  his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse."

  "Certainly not without your permission."

  "And of course this is all quite a minor point

  compared to the question of who killed John Straker."

  "And you will devote yourself to that?"

  "On the contrary, we both go back to London by the

  night train."

  I was thunderstruck by my friend's words. We had only

  been a few hours in Devonshire, and that he should

  give up an investigation which he had begun so

  brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me. Not a

  word more could I draw from him until we were back at

  the trainer's house. The Colonel and the Inspector

  were awaiting us in the parlor.

  "My friend and I return to town by the night-express,"

  said Holmes. "We have had a charming little breath of

  your beautiful Dartmoor air."

  The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip

  curled in a sneer.

  "So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor

  Straker," said he.

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "There are certainly

  grave difficulties in the way," said he. "I have

  every hope, however, that your horse will start upon

  Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your jockey in

  readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John

  Straker?"

  The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it

  to him.

  "My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I

  might ask you to wait here for an instant, I have a

  question which I should like to put to the maid."

  "I must say that I am rather disappointed in our

  London consultant," said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my

  friend left the room. "I do not see that we are any

  further than when he came."

  "At least you have his assurance that your horse will

  run," said I.

  "Yes, I have his assurance," said the Colonel, with a

  shrug of his shoulders. "I should prefer to have the

  horse."

  I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend

  when he entered the room again.

  "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I am quite ready for

  Tavistock."

  As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads

  held the door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to

  occur to Holmes, for he leaned forward and touched the

  lad upon the sleeve.

  "You have a few sheep in the paddock," he said. "Who

  attends to them?"

  "I do, sir."

  "Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?"

  "Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them

  have gone lame, sir."

  I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he

  chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

  "A long sho
t, Watson; a very long shot," said he,

  pinching my arm. "Gregory, let me recommend to your

  attention this singular epidemic among the sheep.

  Drive on, coachman!"

  Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the

  poor opinion which he had formed of my companion's

  ability, but I saw by the Inspector's face that his

  attention had been keenly aroused.

  "You consider that to be important?" he asked.

  "Exceedingly so."

  "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my

  attention?"

  "To the curious incident of the dog in the

  night-time."

  "The dog did nothing in the night-time."

  "That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock

  Holmes.

  Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train,

  bound for Winchester to see the race for the Wessex

  Cup. Colonel Ross met us by appointment outside the

  station, and we drove in his drag to the course beyond

  the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold

  in the extreme.

  "I have seen nothing of my horse," said he.

  "I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?"

  asked Holmes.

  The Colonel was very angry. "I have been on the turf

  for twenty years, and never was asked such a question

  as that before," said he. "A child would know Silver

  Blaze, with his white forehead and his mottled

  off-foreleg."

  "How is the betting?"

  "Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have

  got fifteen to one yesterday, but the price has become

  shorter and shorter, until you can hardly get three to

  one now."

  "Hum!" said Holmes. "Somebody knows something, that

  is clear."

  As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand

  stand I glanced at the card to see the entries.

  Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs

  added for four and five year olds. Second, L300.

  Third, L200. New course (one mile and five furlongs).

  Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro. Red cap. Cinnamon

  jacket.

  Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue and black

  jacket.

  Lord Backwater's Desborough. Yellow cap and sleeves.

  Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze. Black cap. Red jacket.

  Duke of Balmoral's Iris. Yellow and black stripes.

  Lord Singleford's Rasper. Purple cap. Black sleeves.

  "We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your

  word," said the Colonel. "Why, what is that? Silver

  Blaze favorite?"

  "Five to four against Silver Blaze!" roared the ring.

  "Five to four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen

  against Desborough! Five to four on the field!"

  "There are the numbers up," I cried. "They are all

  six there."

  "All six there? Then my horse is running," cried the

  Colonel in great agitation. "But I don't see him. My

  colors have not passed."

  "Only five have passed. This must be he."

  As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the

  weighting enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on

  it back the well-known black and red of the Colonel.

  "That's not my horse," cried the owner. "That beast

  has not a white hair upon its body. What is this that

  you have done, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Well, well, let us see how he gets on," said my

  friend, imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed

  through my field-glass. "Capital! An excellent

  start!" he cried suddenly. "There they are, coming

  round the curve!"

  From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the

  straight. The six horses were so close together that

  a carpet could have covered them, but half way up the

  yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the front.

  Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was

  shot, and the Colonel's horse, coming away with a

  rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its

  rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making a bad third.

  "It's my race, anyhow," gasped the Colonel, passing

  his hand over his eyes. "I confess that I can make

  neither head nor tail of it. Don't you think that you

  have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let

  us all go round and have a look at the horse together.

  Here he is," he continued, as we made our way into the

  weighing enclosure, where only owners and their

  friends find admittance. "You have only to wash his

  face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find

  that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever."

  "You take my breath away!"

  "I found him in the hands of a fakir, and took the

  liberty of running him just as he was sent over."

  "My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks

  very fit and well. It never went better in its life.

  I owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted your

  ability. You have done me a great service by

  recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still

  if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John

  Straker."

  "I have done so," said Holmes quietly.

  The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. "You

  have got him! Where is he, then?"

  "He is here."

  "Here! Where?"

  "In my company at the present moment."

  The Colonel flushed angrily. "I quite recognize that

  I am under obligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he,

  "but I must regard what you have just said as either a

  very bad joke or an insult."

  Sherlock Holmes laughed. "I assure you that I have

  not associated you with the crime, Colonel," said he.

  "The real murderer is standing immediately behind

  you." He stepped past and laid his hand upon the

  glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

  "The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.

  "Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say

  that it was done in self-defence, and that John

  Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your

  confidence. But there goes the bell, and as I stand

  to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a

  lengthy explanation until a more fitting time."

  We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that

  evening as we whirled back to London, and I fancy that

  the journey was a short one to Colonel Ross as well as

  to myself, as we listened to our companion's narrative

  of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoor

  training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means

  by which he had unravelled them.

  "I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had

  formed from the newspaper reports were entirely

  erroneous. And yet there were indications there, had

  they not been overlaid by other details which

  concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire

  with the conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true

  culprit, although, of course, I saw that the evidence

  against him was by no means complete. It was
while I

  was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's

  house, that the immense significance of the curried

  mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was

  distrait, and remained sitting after you had all

  alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could

  possibly have overlooked so obvious a clue."

  "I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot

  see how it helps us."

  "It was the first link in my chain of reasoning.

  Powdered opium is by no means tasteless. The flavor

  is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible. Were it

  mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would

  undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more.

  A curry was exactly the medium which would disguise

  this taste. By no possible supposition could this

  stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be

  served in the trainer's family that night, and it is

  surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he

  happened to come along with powdered opium upon the

  very night when a dish happened to be served which

  would disguise the flavor. That is unthinkable.

  Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case,

  and our attention centers upon Straker and his wife,

  the only two people who could have chosen curried

  mutton for supper that night. The opium was added

  after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for

  the others had the same for supper with no ill

  effects. Which of them, then, had access to that dish

  without the maid seeing them?

  "Before deciding that question I had grasped the

  significance of the silence of the dog, for one true

  inference invariably suggests others. The Simpson

  incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the

  stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had

  fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to

  arouse the two lads in the loft. Obviously the

  midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

  "I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that

  John Straker went down to the stables in the dead of

  the night and took out Silver Blaze. For what

  purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why

  should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a

  loss to know why. There have been cases before now

  where trainers have made sure of great sums of money

  by laying against their own horses, through agents,

  and then preventing them from winning by fraud.

  Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is

  some surer and subtler means. What was it here? I

  hoped that the contents of his pockets might help me

  to form a conclusion.

  "And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the

  singular knife which was found in the dead man's hand,

  a knife which certainly no sane man would choose for a

  weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of

  knife which is used for the most delicate operations

  known in surgery. And it was to be used for a

  delicate operation that night. You must know, with

  your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel Ross,

  that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the

  tendons of a horse's ham, and to do it subcutaneously,

  so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so

  treated would develop a slight lameness, which would

  be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of

  rheumatism, but never to foul play."

  "Villain! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel.

  "We have here the explanation of why John Straker

  wished to take the horse out on to the moor. So

  spirited a creature would have certainly roused the

  soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the

  knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the

  open air."

  "I have been blind!" cried the Colonel. "Of course

  that was why he needed the candle, and struck the

  match."

  "Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was

  fortunate enough to discover not only the method of

  the crime, but even its motives. As a man of the

  world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other

  people's bills about in their pockets. We have most

  of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once