ADVENTURE IV. THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man.
It is safe to say that there was no public case of any difficulty in which he
was not consulted during those eight years, and there were hundreds of private
cases, some of them of the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which
he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidable failures
were the outcome of this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very
full notes of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them,
it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select to lay
before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give the preference
to those cases which derive their interest not so much from the brutality of the
crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution.
For this reason I will now lay before the reader
the facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington,
and the curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in unexpected tragedy.
It is true that the circumstance did not admit of any striking illustration of
those powers for which my friend was famous, but there were some points about
the case which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather
the material for these little narratives.
On referring to my notebook for the year 1895,
I find that it was upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss
Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he
was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem concerning
the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the well known tobacco
millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision
and concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his attention
from the matter in hand. And yet, without a harshness which was foreign to his
nature, it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful
woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late
in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that
his time was already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determination
to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing short of force could get her
out of the room until she had done so.
With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile,
Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and to inform us what it
was that was troubling her. "At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his
keen eyes darted over her, "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."
She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and
I observed the slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction
of the edge of the pedal. "Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has
something to do with my visit to you today."
My friend took the lady's ungloved hand, and examined
it with as close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show
to a specimen. "You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business," said he, as
he dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were typewriting.
Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the spatulate finger-ends,
Watson, which is common to both professions? There is a spirituality about the
face, however"—she gently turned it towards the light—"which the typewriter
does not generate. This lady is a musician."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."
"In the country, I presume, from your complexion."
"Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."
"A beautiful neighborhood, and full of the most
interesting associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we
took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you,
near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?"
The young lady, with great clearness and composure,
made the following curious statement:
"My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith,
who conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were
left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to
Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him since. When
father died, we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was an
advertisement in the TIMES, inquiring for our whereabouts. You can imagine how
excited we were, for we thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went at
once to the lawyer whose name was given in the paper. There we, met two gentlemen,
Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They
said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some months before
in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath
to hunt up his relations, and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange
to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be
so careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers explained that
the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his brother, and so
felt responsible for our fate."
"Excuse me," said Holmes. "When was this interview?"
"Last December—four months ago."
"Pray proceed."
"Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person.
He was for ever making eyes at me—a coarse, puffy-faced, red-mustached young
man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that
he was perfectly hateful—and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to know
such a person."
"Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed. "Yes, Mr. Holmes,
Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope to be married at the end of
the summer. Dear me, how DID I get talking about him? What I wished to say was
that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much
older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person,
but he had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left,
and on finding that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach
music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like to leave my mother,
on which he suggested that I should go home to her every weekend, and he offered
me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting,
and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers
was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly
person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear,
and everything promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and
we had most pleasant evenings together. Every weekend I went home to my mother
in town.
"The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival
of the red-mustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh! it seemed
three months to me. He was a dreadful person—a bully to everyone else, but
to me something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth,
said that if I married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and finally,
when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me in his arms one day after
dinner—he was hideously strong—and swore that he would not let me go
until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which
he turned upon his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. That
was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologized to me
next day, and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an insult again.
I have not seen Mr. Woodley since.
"And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special
thing which has caused me to ask your advice today. You must know that every Saturday
forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in order to get the 12:22 to
town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly
so, for it lies for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the
woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more
lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart,
or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago
I was passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about
two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a
middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham,
but the man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised
I was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same man on the
same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred
again, exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept
his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very
odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and
told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should not pass
over these lonely roads without some companion.
"The horse and trap were to have come this week,
but for some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station.
That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charlington
Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks
before. He always kept so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but
it was certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with
a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could clearly see was his dark
beard. Today. I was not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined
to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed
down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for
him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I pedaled very quickly round this,
and then I stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me before
he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner.
I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary,
there was no side road at this point down which he could have gone."
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "This case
certainly presents some features of its own," said he. "How much time elapsed
between your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?"
"Two or three minutes."
"Then he could not have retreated down the road,
and you say that there are no side roads?"
"None."
"Then he certainly took a footpath on one side
or the other."
"It could not have been on the side of the heath,
or I should have seen him."
"So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at
the fact that he made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand,
is situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?"
"Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed
that I felt I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice."
Holmes sat in silence for some little time. "Where
is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he asked at last.
"He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."
"He would not pay you a surprise visit?"
"Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!"
"Have you had any other admirers?"
"Several before I knew Cyril."
"And since?"
"There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can
call him an admirer."
"No one else?"
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
"Who was he?" asked Holmes.
"Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had
seemed to me sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of
interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the
evening. He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always
knows."
"Ha!" Holmes looked grave. "What does he do for
a living?"
"He is a rich man."
"No carriages or horses?"
"Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he
goes into the city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South
African gold shares."
"You will let me know any fresh development, Miss
Smith. I am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into
your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and
I trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you."
"It is part of the settled order of Nature that
such a girl should have followers," said Holmes, he pulled at his meditative pipe,
"but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover,
beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the case,
Watson."
"That he should appear only at that point?"
"Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who
are the tenants of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different type?
How came they BOTH to be so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith's relations? One
more point. What sort of a menage is it which pays double the market price for
a governess but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station? Odd,
Watson—very odd!"
"You will go down?"
"No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down. This may
be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for
the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal yourself
near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself, and act as
your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,
you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not another word of the
matter until we have a few solid steppingstones on which we may hope to get across
to our solution."
We had ascertained from the lady that she went
down upon the Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed
to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady's
adventure, for the road runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew
hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded with magnificent trees.
There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side pillar surmounted
by moldering heraldic emblems, but besides this central carriage drive I observed
several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them.
The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom
and decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering
gorse, gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind
one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway of
the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been deserted
when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction
to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw that he had
a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington grounds, he sprang from
his machine and led it through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second
cyclist appeared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw
her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the
man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed her. In
all the broad landscape those were the only moving figures, the graceful girl
sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low over
his handlebar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked
back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped. He at once stopped,
too, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected
as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed straight
at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight. Presently
she came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to
take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still
kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well
that I did so, for presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned
in at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some minutes I could
see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised, and he seemed to be settling
his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards
the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. Far away I could
catch glimpses of the old gray building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but
the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly
good morning's work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house
agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well
known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with courtesy
from the representative. No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer.
I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the
name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman. The polite agent
was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients were not matters
which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to
the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued.
On the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented
upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.
"Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty.
You should have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view of
this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and can
tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man; I am
convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she
should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as bending
over the handlebar Concealment again, you see. You really have done remarkably
badly. He returns to the house, and you want to find out who he is. You come to
a London house agent!"
"What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.
"Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the
center of country gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master
to the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an elderly
man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that young lady's athletic
pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl's
story is true. I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the cyclist
and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson.
Who's the better for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We
can do little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or
two inquiries myself."
Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting
shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the
letter lay in the postscript:
I am sure that you will respect my confidence,
Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to
the fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his
feelings are most deep and most honorable. At the same time, my promise is of
course given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently. You can
understand, however, that the situation is a little strained.
"Our young friend seems to be getting into deep
waters," said Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case certainly
presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I
had originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in
the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two
theories which I have formed."
Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular
termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip
and a discolored lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation
which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland Yard investigation.
He was immensely tickled by his own adventures
and laughed heartily as he recounted them. "I get so little active exercise that
it is always a treat" said he. "You are aware that I have some proficiency in
the good old British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service, today.,
for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without it."
I begged him to tell me what had occurred.
"I found that country pub which I had already recommended
to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and
a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded
man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some
rumor that he is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short
residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already
made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man
of that name in orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord
further informed me that there are usually weekend visitors—`a warm lot,
sir'—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red mustache, Mr. Woodley
by name, who was always there. We had got as far as this, when who should walk
in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the taproom and
had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean
by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very
vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which I failed to
entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against
a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart.
So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my
day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own."
The Thursday brought us another letter from our
client.
"You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said
she] to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay
cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up
to town, and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so
the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
"As to the special cause of my leaving, it
is not merely the strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance
of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful
than ever now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is much disfigured.
I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a
long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited afterwards. Woodley must
be staying in the neighborhood, for he did not sleep here, and yet I caught a
glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner
have a savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him more than
I can say. How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a moment? However,
all my troubles will be over on Saturday."
"So I trust, Watson, so I trust," said Holmes,
gravely. "There is some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it
is our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson,
that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and make sure
that this curious and inclusive investigation has no untoward ending."
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very
serious view of the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman
is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so little audacity that he not only dared
not address her, but even fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable
assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on one
occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers
without intruding upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member
of those weekend parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who
he was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes's
manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving
our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk
behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning,
and the heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse,
seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and drabs and
slate grays of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling
the fresh morning air and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath
of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill, we
could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old
as they were, were still younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes
pointed down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between
the brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black dot,
we could see a vehicle moving in our direction.
Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience. "I have
given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is her trap, she must be making
for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will be past Charlington before
we can possibly meet her."
From the instant that we passed the rise, we could
no longer see the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my sedentary
life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes, however,
was always in training, for he had inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon
which to draw. His springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred
yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand with a gesture
of grief and despair. At the same instant an empty dogcart, the horse cantering,
the reins trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards
us.
"Too late, Watson, too late!" cried Holmes, as
I ran panting to his side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
It's abduction, Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road!
Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can repair the
consequences of my own blunder."
We had sprung into the dogcart, and Holmes, after
turning the horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the
road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the
heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm.
"That's the man!" I gasped. A solitary cyclist
was coming towards us. His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as he put
every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a
racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up,
springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to
eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dogcart Then
a look of amazement came over his face.
"Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle
to block our road. "Where did you get that dogcart? Pull up, man!" he yelled,
drawing a pistol from his side "Pull up, I say, or, by George, I'll put a bullet
into your horse."
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down
from the cart. "You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he
said, in his quick, clear way.
"That's what I'm asking you. You're in her dogcart
You ought to know where she is."
"We met the dogcart on the road. There was no one
in it. We drove back to help the young lady."
"Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?" cried
the stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand
by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood."
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards
a gap in the hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside
the road, followed Holmes.
"This is where they came through," said he, pointing
to the marks of several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's
this in the bush?"
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed
like an ostler, with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance
at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
"That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger.
"He drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we
can't do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall
a woman."
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among
the trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes
pulled up. "They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left—
here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so."
As he spoke, a woman's shrill scream—a scream
which vibrated with a frenzy of horror—burst from the thick, green clump
of bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and
a gurgle.
"This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,"
cried the stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow
me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!"
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a
mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our
client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood
a brutal, heavy-faced, red-mustached young man, his gaitered legs parted wide,
one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole attitude suggestive
of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly, gray-bearded man, wearing a short
surplice over a light tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service,
for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the sinister bridegroom
upon the back in jovial congratulation.
"They're married!" I gasped.
"Come on!" cried our guide, "come on!" He rushed
across the glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered
against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed
to us with mock politeness, and the bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal
and exultant laughter. "You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you,
right enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able
to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched
off the dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing
a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and covered
the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging
in his hand.
"Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers, and
I'll see this woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do
if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I'll be as good as my word."
"You're too late. She's my wife."
"No, she's your widow."
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt
from the front of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon
his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor.
The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul oaths
as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he could
raise it, he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's weapon.
"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop
that pistol! Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You, Carruthers,
give me that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!"
"Who are you, then?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Good Lord!"
"You have heard of me, I see. I will represent
the official police until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened
groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as
hard as you can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his
notebook. "Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes,
I must detain you all under my personal custody."
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated
the tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers
found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave my arm
to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes's request
I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room
with his two prisoners before him.
"He will live," said I.
"What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his
chair. "I'll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel,
is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"
"You need not concern yourself about that," said
Holmes. "There are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances,
be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's
right to solemnize a marriage."
"I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.
"And also unfrocked."
"Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."
"I think not. How about the license?"
"We had a license for the marriage. I have it here
in my pocket."
"Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced
marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover
before you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out during the next
ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have done
better to keep your pistol in your pocket."
"I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought
of all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr.
Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was— it fairly
drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and bully
in South Africa—a man whose name is a holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg.
Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in
my employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew the rascals
were lurking, without following her on my bicycle, just to see that she came to
no harm. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not
recognize me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have
stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was following her about
the country roads."
"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"
"Because then, again, she would have left me, and
I couldn't bear to face that. Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great deal
to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her
voice."
"Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers,
but I should call it selfishness."
"Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't
let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone
near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew they were bound to make
a move."
"What cable?"
Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket "That's
it," said he.
It was short and concise:
"The
old man is dead."
"Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked,
and I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head.
But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.
The old reprobate with the surplice burst into
a volley of bad language. "By heaven!" said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers,
I'll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to your
heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if you round on your pals to
this plainclothes copper, it will be the worst day's work that ever you did."
"Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes,
lighting a cigarette. "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is
a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any difficulty in
your telling me, I'll do the talking, and then you will see how far you have a
chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you came from
South Africa on this game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley."
"Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw
either of them until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life,
so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!"
"What he says is true," said Carruthers.
"Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence
is our own homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had
reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit
his fortune. How's that—eh?"
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.
"She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware
that the old fellow would make no will."
"Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.
"So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up
the girl. The idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a
share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why
was that?"
"We played cards for her on the voyage. He won."
"I see. You got the young lady into your service,
and there Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that
he was, and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was
rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You
could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?"
"No, by George, I couldn't!"
"There was a quarrel between you. He left you in
a rage, and began to make his own plans independently of you."
"It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much
that we can tell this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. "Yes,
we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then
I lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast padre here.
I found that they had set up housekeeping together at this place on the line that
she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there
was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to time, for I was anxious
to know what they were after. Two days ago Woodley came up to my house with this
cable, which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by
the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself
and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have
me. He said, `Let us get her married first and after a week or two she may see
things a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So he
went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he was, and swearing that
he would have her yet. She was leaving me this weekend, and I had got a trap to
take her to the station, but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on
my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the mischief
was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving
back in her dogcart"
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette
into the grate. "I have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your report
you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the
shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves
upon a curious and, in some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county
constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little ostler is able
to keep pace with them, so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom
will be permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that
in your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if
she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to escort her to her mother's
home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find that a hint that we were
about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete
the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could
to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my
evidence can be of help in your trial, it shall be at your disposal."
In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has
often been difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off
my narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might expect.
Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over, the actors
have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the
end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon record
that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now
the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster
electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault,
the former getting seven years the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I have
no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court,
since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think
that a few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.