The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

  "Could he throw no light?"

  "None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew

  who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced

  now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very

  quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,

  sound at heart."

  "I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact

  that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as

  this Miss Turner."

  "Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,

  insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was

  only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away

  five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get

  into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a

  registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can

  imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not

  doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows

  to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort

  which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father,

  at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss

  Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,

  and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would

  have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with

  his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in

  Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that

  point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however,

  for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious

  trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and

  has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the

  Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I

  think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all

  that he has suffered."

  "But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

  "Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two

  points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with

  someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his

  son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would

  return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry

  'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the

  crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk

  about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all

  minor matters until to-morrow."

  There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke

  bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with

  the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe

  Pool.

  "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is

  said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is

  despaired of."

  "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

  "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life

  abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This

  business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend

  of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I

  have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

  "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

  "Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody

  about here speaks of his kindness to him."

  "Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this

  McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have

  been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of

  marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably,

  heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner,

  as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would

  follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself

  was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not

  deduce something from that?"

  "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said

  Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,

  Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

  "You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard

  to tackle the facts."

  "Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it

  difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

  "And that is--"

  "That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that

  all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

  "Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,

  laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley

  Farm upon the left."

  "Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking

  building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches

  of lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless

  chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight

  of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,

  when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her

  master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the

  son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured

  these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes

  desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed

  the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

  Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent

  as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of

  Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed

  and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines,

  while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

  His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips

  compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,

  sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal

  lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated

  upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell

  unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,

  impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way

  along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of

  the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is

  all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon

  the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either

  side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and

  once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and

  I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,

  while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the

  conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a

  definite end.

  The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water

  some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the

  Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.

  Above the woods which lined it upon the farther
side we could see

  the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich

  landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods

  grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass

  twenty paces across between the edge of the trees land the reeds

  which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which

  the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,

  that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the

  fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager

  face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read

  upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking

  up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

  "What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

  "I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon

  or other trace. But how on earth--"

  "Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its

  inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and

  there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all

  have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo

  and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the

  lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or

  eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of

  the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his

  waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to

  himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he

  was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are

  deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his

  story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are

  the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It

  is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?

  Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite

  unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course

  that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up

  and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we

  were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a

  great beech, the largest tree in the neighborhood. Holmes traced

  his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon

  his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he

  remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks,

  gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and

  examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of

  the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among

  the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then

  he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the

  highroad, where all traces were lost.

  "It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,

  returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on

  the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a

  word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done

  that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,

  and I shall be with you presently."

  It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove

  back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he

  had picked up in the wood.

  "This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.

  "The murder was done with it."

  "I see no marks."

  "There are none."

  "How do you know, then?"

  "The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few

  days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It

  corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other

  weapon."

  "And the murderer?"

  "Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears

  thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian

  cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his

  pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be

  enough to aid us in our search."

  Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he

  said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a

  hard-headed British jury."

  "Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own

  method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,

  and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

  "And leave your case unfinished?"

  "No, finished."

  "But the mystery?"

  "It is solved."

  "Who was the criminal, then?"

  "The gentleman I describe."

  "But who is he?"

  "Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a

  populous neighborhood."

  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,

  "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking

  for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the

  laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

  "All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance.

  Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before

  I leave."

  Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where

  we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in

  thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds

  himself in a perplexing position.

  "Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit

  down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't

  know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a

  cigar and let me expound."

  "Pray do so."

  "Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about

  young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,

  although they impressed me in his favor and you against him. One

  was the fact that his father should, according to his account,

  cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying

  reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but

  that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double

  point our research must commence, and we will begin it by

  presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

  "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

  "Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The

  son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that

  he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the

  attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But

  'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used

  between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the

  person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was

  someone who had been in Australia."

  "What of the rat, then?"

  Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened

  it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,"

  he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand

  over part of the map. "What do you read?"

  "ARAT," I read.

  "And
now?" He raised his hand.

  "BALLARAT."

  "Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his

  son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter

  the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

  "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

  "It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down

  considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third point

  which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a

  certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite

  conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."

  "Certainly."

  "And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only

  be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could

  hardly wander."

  "Quite so."

  "Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the

  ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that

  imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

  "But how did you gain them?"

  "You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of

  trifles."

  "His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length

  of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

  "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

  "But his lameness?"

  "The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than

  his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he

  was lame."

  "But his left-handedness."

  "You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded

  by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from

  immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can

  that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind

  that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had

  even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special

  knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian

  cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and

  written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different

  varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the

  ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss

  where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety

  which are rolled in Rotterdam."

  "And the cigar-holder?"

  "I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he

  used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the

  cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

  "Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which

  he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as

  truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the

  direction in which all this points. The culprit is--"

  "Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of

  our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

  The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His

  slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of

  decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and

  his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual

  strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled

  hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air

  of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an

  ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were

  tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that

  he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

  "Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my

  note?"

  "Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to

  see me here to avoid scandal."

  "I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

  "And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my

  companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question

  was already answered.

  "Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It