THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE 6 page

Date: 2015-10-07; view: 359.

glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see

that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had

written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been

this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.

All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back

to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised

description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman

named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;

strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in

the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted

glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen,

in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert

chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over

elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in

Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing--"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,

glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no

clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There

is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike

you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the

neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you

see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is

rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive

--in fact, we may call it conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it

bears upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able

to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were

instituted."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,

which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the

other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking

him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow

evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the

male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the

answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem

upon the shelf for the interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers

of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that

he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy

demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had

been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in

the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler

photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the

Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with

the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle

indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the

conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would

find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up

to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary

Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own

attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at

the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six

o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a

hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too

late to assist at the dйnouement of the little mystery. I found

Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin

form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable

array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell

of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the

chemical work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.

There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said

yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback

is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss

Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet

opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the

passage and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said

Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at

six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some

thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a

bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and

penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of

us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a

slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that

this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an

appointment with me for six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not

quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland

has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far

better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite

against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable,

impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily

controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I

did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the

official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family

misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless

expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to

believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am

delighted to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has

really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless

they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some

letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one

side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that

in every case there is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and

a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other

characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,

and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing

keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,

Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another

little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its

relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some

little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come

from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not

only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will

observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen

other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I

cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"

he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know

when you have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in

the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips

and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There

is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too

transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that

it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's

right! Sit down and let us talk it over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a

glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he

stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,

Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a

petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the

course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his

breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up

on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands

in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,

than to us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her

money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the

daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable

sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have

made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.

The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate

and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with

her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would

not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would

mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her

stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of

keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of

people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not

answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and

finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain

ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an

idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the

connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,

covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with

a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice

into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the

girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off

other lovers by making love himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never

thought that she would have been so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very

decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that

her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never

for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the

gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the

loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began

to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as

far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There

were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the

girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the

deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys

to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to

bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it

would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and

prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to

come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and

hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening

on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss

Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to

his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not

listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her,

and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished

away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a

four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of

events, Mr. Windibank!"

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes

had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold

sneer upon his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you

are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is

you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing

actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door

locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal

constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking

and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who

deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a

friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!"

he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon

the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but

here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat

myself to--" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he

could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs,

the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr.

James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he

threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will

rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and

ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not

entirely devoid of interest."

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I

remarked.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.

Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious

conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really

profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the

stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together,

but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was

suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice,

which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My

suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in

typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his

handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even

the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,

together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same

direction."

"And how did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I

knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed

description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the

result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I

sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me

whether it answered to the description of any of their

travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the

typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business

address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his

reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but

characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from

Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the

description tallied in every respect with that of their employй,

James Windibank. Voilа tout!"

"And Miss Sutherland?"

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old

Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger

cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.'

There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much

knowledge of the world."

ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the

maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran

in this way:

"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from

the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.

Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect.

Leave Paddington by the 11:15."

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me.

"Will you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at

present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking

a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good,

and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained

through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack

at once, for I have only half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the

effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were

few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a

cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock

Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt

figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey

travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It

makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on

whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless

or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall

get the tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of

papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged

and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until

we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a

gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just

been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the

particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those

simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a

clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more

difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they

have established a very serious case against the son of the

murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for

granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into

it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have

been able to understand it, in a very few words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in

Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a

Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned

some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he

held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was

also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the

colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to

settle down they should do so as near each other as possible.

Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his

tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect

equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son,

a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same

age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have

avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to

have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of

sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the

neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.

Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the

least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the

families. Now for the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at

Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the

Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out

of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been

out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told

the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of

importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came

back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a

mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One

was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was

William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both

these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The

game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.

McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the

same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the

father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was

following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in

the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,

the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly

wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the

edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of

the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the

woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she

saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr.

McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a

violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very

strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his

hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their

violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached

home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near

Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to

fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came

running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead

in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was

much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right

hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On

following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the

grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated

blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as

might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's

gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the

body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly

arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned

at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the

magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next

Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out

before the coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If

ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so

here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes

thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing,

but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it

pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something

entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case

looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very

possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people

in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the

daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his

innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect

in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in

his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the

case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are

flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly

digesting their breakfasts at home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you

will find little credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he

answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some

other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to

Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting

when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by

means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of

understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly

perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand

side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted

even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth--"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness

which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this

season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less

and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until

it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the

jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated

than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking

at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a

result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and