I have never known my friend to be in better
form, both mental and physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had
brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion
if I were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who
crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like all great
artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse,
I have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable services.
So unworldly was he—or so capricious— that he frequently refused his help to
the powerful and wealthy where the problem made no appeal to his sympathies,
while he would devote weeks of most intense application to the affairs of some
humble client whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which
appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year '95, a curious and incongruous
succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation
of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry which was carried out by him
at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson,
the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End
of London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of
Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death
of Captain Peter Carey. No record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would
be complete which did not include some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July, my friend had
been absent so often and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something
on hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that time and
inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working somewhere
under one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own
formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different parts
of London, in which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing
of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a confidence.
The first positive sign which he gave me of
the direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one.
He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine when he strode
into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked
like an umbrella under his arm. "Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried. "You don't
mean to say that you have been walking about London with that thing?"
"I drove to the butcher's and back."
"The butcher's?"
"And I return with an excellent appetite. There
can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast.
But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise
has taken."
"I will not attempt it."
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee. "If
you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop, you would have seen a dead
pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt sleeves
furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that energetic person, and
I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the
pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?"
"Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"
"Because it seemed to me to have an indirect
bearing upon the mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us."
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty
years of age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing
of one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at once as
Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose future Holmes had high
hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for
the scientific methods of the famous amateur.
Hopkins's brow was clouded, and he sat down
with an air of deep dejection. "No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I
came round. I spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."
"And what had you to report?"
"Failure, sir, absolute failure."
"You have made no progress?"
"None."
"Dear me! I must have a look at the matter."
"I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes.
It's my first big chance, and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake, come
down and lend me a hand."
"Well, well, it just happens that I have already
read all the available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch, found on the
scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?"
Hopkins looked surprised. "It was the man's
own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it was of sealskin,—and he
was an old sealer."
"But he had no pipe."
"No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he
smoked very little, and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."
"No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had
been handling the case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point
of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows nothing of this
matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of events once
more. Just give us some short sketches of the essentials."
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his
pocket.
"I have a few dates here which will give you
the career of the dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45—fifty years
of age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883
he commanded the steam sealer SEA UNICORN, of Dundee. He had then had several
successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he retired.
After that he traveled for some years, and finally he bought a small place
called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six
years, and there he died just a week ago today.
"There were some most singular points about
the man. In ordinary life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow.
His household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female
servants. These last were continually changing, for it was never a very cheery
situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The man was an intermittent
drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been
known to drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the night
and flog them through the park until the whole village outside the gates was
aroused by their screams.
"He was summoned once for a savage assault upon
the old vicar, who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.
In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous man
than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same character when he
commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the name
was given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the color of
his huge beard, but for the humors which were the terror of all around him.
I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his neighbors,
and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow about his terrible end.
"You must have read in the account of the inquest
about the man's cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard
of it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it the `cabin'—a
few hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he slept every night.
It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in
his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot
to cross the threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were covered
by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was turned towards the high
road, and when the light burned in it at night the folk used to point it out
to each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's the window,
Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came
out at the inquest.
"You remember that a stonemason, named Slater,
walking from Forest Row about one o'clock in the morning—two days before the
murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light still
shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned sideways
was clearly visible on the blind, and that this shadow was certainly not that
of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard
was short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of the captain.
So he says, but he had been two hours in the public-house, and it is some distance
from the road to the window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime
was done upon the Wednesday.
"On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his
blackest moods, flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast.
He roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming.
Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following
morning, his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most fearful
yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout
when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven, one of the
maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but so great was the terror
which the man caused that it was midday before anyone would venture down to
see what had become of him. Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which
sent them flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was
on the spot and had taken over the case.
"Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know,
Mr. Holmes, but I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into
that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and bluebottles,
and the floor and walls were like a slaughterhouse. He had called it a cabin,
and a cabin it was, sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in
a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture
of the SEA UNICORN, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all exactly as one would
expect to find it in a captain's room. And there, in the middle of it, was
the man himself—his face twisted like a lost soul in torment, and his great
brindled beard stuck upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a
steel harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall
behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite
dead, and had been so from the instant that he had uttered that last yell of
agony.
"I know your methods, sir, and I applied them.
Before I permitted anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground
outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks."
"Meaning that you saw none?"
"I assure you, sir, that there were none."
"My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes,
but I have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As
long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation,
some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the scientific
searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room contained no trace
which could have aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there
were some objects which you failed to overlook?"
The young inspector winced at my companion's
ironical comments. "I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes.
However, that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the
room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with which the
deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the wall. Two
others remained there, and there was a vacant place for the third. On the stock
was engraved `SS. SEA UNICORN, Dundee.' This seemed to establish that the crime
had been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized the first
weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime was committed at two
in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had
an appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle
of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table."
"Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences
are permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"
"Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy
and whisky on the sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used."
"For all that, its presence has some significance,"
said Holmes. "However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
to you to bear upon the case."
"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."
"What part of the table?"
"It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was `P.C.' on
the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco in it."
"Excellent! What more?"
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered
notebook. The outside was rough and worn, the leaves discolored. On the first
page were written the initials "J.H.N." and the date "1883." Holmes laid it
on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I gazed over
each shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters "C.P.R.," and then
came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was "Argentine," another "Costa
Rica," and another "San Paulo," each with pages of signs and figures after
it.
"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.
"They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities.
I thought that `J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that `CPR may have
been his client."
"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and
struck his thigh with his clenched hand. "What a fool I have been!" he cried.
"Of course, it is as you say. Then `J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to
solve. I have already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find
no one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers, whose initials
correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that
I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these
initials are those of the second person who was present—in other words, of
the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document
relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the first time
some indication of a motive for the crime."
Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly
taken aback by this new development. "I must admit both your points," said
he. "I confess that this notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies
any views which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which
I can find no place for this. Have you endeavored to trace any of the securities
here mentioned?"
"Inquiries are now being made at the offices,
but I fear that the complete register of the stockholders of these South American
concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can
trace the shares."
Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook
with his magnifying lens. "Surely there is some discoloration here," said he.
"Yes, sir, it is a bloodstain. I told you that
I picked the book off the floor."
"Was the bloodstain. above or below?"
"On the side next the boards."
"Which proves, of course, that the book was
dropped after the crime was committed."
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point,
and I conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight.
It lay near the door."
"I suppose that none of these securities have
been found among the property of the dead man?"
"No, sir."
"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"
"No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."
"Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting
case. Then there was a knife, was there not?"
"A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay
at the feet of the dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's
property."
Holmes was lost in thought for some time. "Well,"
said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out and have a look at it."
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy. "Thank you,
sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my 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 ironworks 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, gray-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 mustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his
face. He could not 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 logbooks 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 Hopkin'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 relit, 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 honor 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 had reappeared on the London market. You can imagine
our amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings 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 logbooks 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 logbooks, but was unable to open the door. Tonight 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 notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the bloodstain. 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 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 traveled 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 tomorrow morning.—Basil.' That's my name in those
parts.
The other is:
`Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street,
Brixton. Come breakfast tomorrow 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. Tomorrow,
I trust that we shall hear the last of it forever."
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 pretense
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, quarreled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified
by what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the notebook 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 practiced 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 anemic 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 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 evidence enough to satisfy a jury, even if you are able
to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon MY man.
As to this terrible person of yours, where is he?"
"I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said
Holmes, serenely. "I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it." He rose and laid a written paper upon a side-table.
"Now we are ready," said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices
outside, and now Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men
inquiring for Captain Basil.
"Show them in one by one," said Holmes.
"The first who entered was a little Ribston
pippin of a man, with ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had
drawn a letter from his pocket. "What name?" he asked.
"James Lancaster."
"I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full.
Here is half a sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes."
The second man was a long, dried-up creature,
with lank hair and sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received
his dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable
appearance. A fierce bulldog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard,
and two bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung
eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his
hands.
"Your name?" asked Holmes.
"Patrick Cairns."
"Harpooner?"
"Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."
"Dundee, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"And ready to start with an exploring ship?"
"Yes, sir."
"What wages?"
"Eight pounds a month."
"Could you start at once?"
"As soon as I get my kit."
"Have you your papers?"
"Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy
forms from his pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
"You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's
the agreement on the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."
The seaman lurched across the room and took
up the pen.
"Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over
the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both
hands over his neck. "This will do," said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an
enraged bull. The next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have very quickly
overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when
I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last understand
that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord, and rose breathless
from the struggle.
"I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock
Holmes. "I fear that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you
have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last, with a very
red face. "It seems to me that I have been making a fool of myself from the
beginning. I understand now, what I should never have forgotten, that I am
the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see what you have done, but I
don't know how you did it or what it signifies."
"Well, well," said Holmes, good-humoredly. "We
all learn by experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you
could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey."
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our
conversation. "See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being manhandled
in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names. You
say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I KILLED Peter Carey, and there's all the
difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging
you a yarn."
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what
you have to say."
"It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word
of it is truth. I knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped
a harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he
died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my
neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."
"How came you there?" asked Holmes.
"I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit
me up a little, so as I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened—August
of that year. Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I was spare harpooner.
We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a week's
southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been blown north.
There was one man on her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder
and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned.
Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long
talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So
far as I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second night
he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out that he had either
thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were
having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for, with
my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in
the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights.
"Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited
to see what would come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed
up, and nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it was
nobody's business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and
it was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he had done
the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he could afford
now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.
"I found out where he was through a sailor man
that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night
he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free
of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came, I
found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank
and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I might need
it before I was through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing,
with murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time
to get it from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what
a yell he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood there, with
his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit, but all was quiet, so
I took heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin box on the shelf.
I had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and
left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.
"Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the
whole story. I had hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming,
and I hid among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave
a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until
he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell.
For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached
London, and no one the wiser.
"Well, when I came to examine the box I found
there was no money in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell.
I had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London without a shilling.
There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners,
and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's
all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give
me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope."
"A very clear statement said Holmes, rising
and lighting his pipe. "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying
your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell,
and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet."
"Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how
to express my gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
result."
"Simply by having the good fortune to get the
right clue from the beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this
notebook it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use of
the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the coarse
tobacco—all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was
convinced that the initials `P.C.' upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not
those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his
cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin.
You said they were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they
could get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."
"And how did you find him?"
"My dear sir, the problem had become a very
simple one. If it were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with
him on the SEA UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship.
I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had ascertained
the names of the crew of the SEA UNICORN in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns
among the harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the man
was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the country for a
time. I therefore spent some days in the East End, devised an Arctic expedition,
put forth tempting terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and
behold the result!"
"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"
"You must obtain the release of young Neligan
as soon as possible," said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities
which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and
you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that
of Watson will be somewhere in Norway—I'll send particulars later."