We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams
at Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us
on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus:
Please
await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing, indispensable
tomorrow. OVERTON.
"Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,"
said Holmes, reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he
will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, and then
we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome
in these stagnant days."
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I
had learned to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug
mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that
under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but
I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but sleeping, and I have known that
the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have
seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever he might be,
since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which
brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed
by its sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked from one
of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I
saw Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful I wonder
my hair isn't gray. Godfrey Staunton—you've heard of him, of course? He's
simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack,
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, or tackling,
or dribbling, there's no one to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can
hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's
Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right
in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline. He's a fine place-kick,
it's true, but then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton
or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough,
but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't
either punt or drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are
done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to
this long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigor and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down
letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.
"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young
forger," said he, "and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
Staunton is a new name to me."
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised. "Why,
Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose, then, if you have
never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don't know Cyril Overton either?"
Holmes shook his head good humoredly
"Great Scott!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first
reserve for England against Wales, and I've skippered the Varsity all this year.
But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?"
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and healthier
one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society, but never, I
am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England.
However, your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now, my good sir,
I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that
has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you."
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look
of the man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees,
with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he
laid his strange story before us.
"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am
the skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is
my best man. Tomorrow. we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and we settled
at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all the fellows
had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep
a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to
me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all
right—just a touch of headache. I bade him goodnight and left him. Half an
hour later, the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with
a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.
Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been poleaxed. The porter
was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink
of water, and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words
to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together.
The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street
in the direction of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed
had never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has
come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman,
was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and
let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him.
No: I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention
to this singular narrative. "What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had
been heard of him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
"Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven."
"But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take
it?"
"No, he has not been seen."
"What did you do next?"
"I wired to Lord Mount-James."
"Why to Lord Mount-James?"
"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is
his nearest relative—his uncle, I believe."
"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter.
Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England."
"So I've heard Godfrey say."
"And your friend was closely related?"
"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly
eighty—cram full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with
his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute
miser, but it will all come to him right enough."
"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"
"No."
"What motive could your friend have in going to
Lord Mount-James?"
"Well, something was worrying him the night before,
and if it was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest
relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would not go
if he could help it."
"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend
was going to his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit
of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was caused
by his coming."
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I
can make nothing of it," said he.
"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be
happy to look into the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him away in
such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step
round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon
the matter."
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of
putting a humble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell. The
visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a workingman.
He was simply what the porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of fifty,
beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated.
The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey
Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with
the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had
only distinguished the one word "time." Then they had hurried off in the manner
described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.
"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's
bed. "You are the day porter, are you not?"
"Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."
"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"
"No, sir, one theater party came in late. No one
else."
"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"
"Yes, sir, one telegram."
"Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"
"About six."
"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"
"Here in his room."
"Were you present when he opened it?"
"Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."
"Well, was there?"
"Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."
"Did you take it?"
"No, he took it himself."
"But he wrote it in your presence."
"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with
his back turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: `All right, porter,
I will take this myself.'"
"What did he write it with?"
"A pen, sir."
"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"
"Yes, sir, it was the top one."
Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them
over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said
he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no doubt
frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which
has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice,
however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly
doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely
this is the very thing!"
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned
towards us the following hieroglyphic:
[GRAPHIC missing]
Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the
glass!" he cried.
"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper
is thin, and the reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over,
and we read:
[GRAPHIC missing] "Stand
by us for Gods sake"
"So that is the tail end of the telegram which
Godfrey Staunton dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are
at least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains—`Stand
by us for God's sake!'—proves that this young man saw a formidable danger
which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him. `US,' mark
you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded
man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connection between
Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which
each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already
narrowed down to that."
"We have only to find to whom that telegram is
addressed," I suggested.
"Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though
profound, had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some disinclination
on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these
matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the
end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to
go through these papers which have been left upon the table."
There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks,
which Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,
penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last. "By the way, I suppose your
friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing amiss with him?"
"Sound as a bell."
"Have you ever known him ill?"
"Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and
once he slipped his kneecap, but that was nothing."
"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I
should think he may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future
inquiry."
"One moment—one moment!" cried a querulous
voice, and we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching
in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed top-hat
and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson
or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance,
his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
attention. "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's
papers?" he asked.
"I am a private detective, and I am endeavoring
to explain his disappearance."
"Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you,
eh?"
"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred
to me by Scotland Yard."
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am Cyril Overton."
"Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name
is Lord Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring
me. So you have instructed a detective?"
"Yes, sir."
"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"
"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey,
when we find him, will be prepared to do that."
"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"
"In that case, no doubt his family——"
"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little
man. "Don't look to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that
I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I
have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those
papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should
be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to account for
what you do with them."
"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I
ask, in the meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for this
young man's disappearance?"
"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old
enough to look after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely
refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."
"I quite understand your position," said Holmes,
with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine.
Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your
wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a gang
of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him some information
as to your house, your habits, and your treasure."
The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned
as white as his neckcloth. "Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such
villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a
staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll have the
plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr.
Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to
money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me."
Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble
miser could give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of
the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and
with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for his
chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with
the other members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.
There was a telegraph-office at a short distance
from the hotel. We halted outside it.
"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course,
with a warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached
that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us
venture it."
"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest
manner, to the young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake about
a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I
must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so?"
The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
"What o'clock was it?" she asked.
"A little after six."
"Whom was it to?"
Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at
me. "The last words in it were `For God's sake,'" he whispered, confidentially;
"I am very anxious at getting no answer."
The young woman separated one of the forms.
"This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing
it out upon the counter.
"Then that, of course, accounts for my getting
no answer," said Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good-morning,
miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind." He chuckled and rubbed his
hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.
"Well?" I asked.
"We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had
seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly
hope to succeed the very first time."
"And what have you gained?"
"A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed
a cab. "King's Cross Station," said he.
"We have a journey, then?"
"Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together.
All the indications seem to me to point in that direction."
"Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn
Road, "have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't
think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.
Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information
against his wealthy uncle?"
"I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not
appeal to me as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person."
"It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"
"I could mention several. You must admit that it
is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important
match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success
of the side. It may, of course, be a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur
sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to get at a
player as the ruffians of the turf get at a racehorse. There is one explanation.
A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great
property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not impossible
that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted."
"These theories take no account of the telegram."
"Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains
the only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention
to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram
that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at
present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have
not cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."
It was already dark when we reached the old university
city. Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to the house
of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had stopped at a large mansion
in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last
admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch
with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I
am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the university,
but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even
without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched
brows, and the granite molding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character,
a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I
read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked
up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.
"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and
I am aware of your profession—one of which I by no means approve."
"In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement
with every criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.
"So far as your efforts are directed towards the
suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient
for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry
into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which
are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more
busy than yourself. At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a
treatise instead of conversing with you."
"No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may
prove more important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we are
doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavoring to
prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily
follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may
look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the regular
forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton."
"What about him?"
"You know him, do you not?"
"He is an intimate friend of mine."
"You are aware that he has disappeared?"
"Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression
in the rugged features of the doctor.
"He left his hotel last night—he has not been
heard of."
"No doubt he will return."
"Tomorrow. is the Varsity football match."
"I have no sympathy with these childish games.
The young man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football
match does not come within my horizon at all."
"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation
of Mr. Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"
"Certainly not."
"You have not seen him since yesterday?"
"No, I have not."
"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"
"Absolutely."
"Did you ever know him ill?"
"Never."
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's
eyes. "Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas,
paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge.
I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk."
The doctor flushed with anger. "I do not feel that
there is any reason why I should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. "If you
prefer a public explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he. "I have already
told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you
would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence."
"I know nothing about it."
"Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"
"Certainly not."
"Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!" Holmes
sighed, wearily. "A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram which is undoubtedly
associated with his disappearance— and yet you have not had it. It is most
culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint."
Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his
desk, and his dark face was crimson with fury. "I'll trouble you to walk out of
my house, sir," said he. "You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I
do not wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No, sir—not
another word!" He rang the bell furiously. "John, show these gentlemen out!" A
pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the
street. Holmes burst out laughing.
"Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy
and character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his talents that
way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And
now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable
town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs. If you would engage
a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make
a few inquiries."
These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more
lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn
until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted
with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his
needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic
and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were going
awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of the window.
A brougham and pair of grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the
doctor's door.
"It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started
at half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve
miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."
"No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."
"But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.
He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general practice,
which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long
journeys, which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"
"His coachman——"
"My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him
that I first applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity
or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.
Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter fell through.
Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our own inn.
It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily journey. At that
instant, to give point to his words, the carriage came round to the door."
"Could you not follow it?"
"Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this
evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get
started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook it, and
then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its
lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage stopped, the doctor
alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had also halted, and told me in an excellent
sardonic fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage
did not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable
than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the carriage, and, keeping to
the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place
to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became
evident that it had turned down one of several side roads which I had observed.
I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive,
it has returned after me. Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason
to connect these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was
only inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything which
concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but, now that I find he
keeps so keen a lookout upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the
affair appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
the matter clear."
"We can follow him tomorrow."
"Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think.
You are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself
to concealment. All this country that I passed over tonight is as flat and clean
as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool, as he very
clearly showed tonight I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our
attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at the office
allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He knows
where the young man is—to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must
be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted
that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is
not my habit to leave the game in that condition."
And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the
solution of the mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed
across to me with a smile.
SIR [it ran]:
I can assure you that
you are wasting your time in dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last
night, a window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride
which will lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow
me. Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr.
Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your employer that you
are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted. Yours
faithfully, LESLIE ARMSTRONG.
"An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,"
said Holmes. "Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know before
I leave him."
"His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There
he is stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?"
"No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your
natural acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor.
I think that possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of
my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the appearance
of TWO inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip
than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in this venerable
city, and I hope to bring back a more favorable report to you before evening."
Once more, however, my friend was destined to be
disappointed. He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.
"I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the
doctor's general direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon
that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news
agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington
have each been explored, and have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance
of a brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows.
The doctor has scored once more. Is there a telegram for me?"
"Yes, I opened it. Here it is:
Ask for
Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.
I don't understand it."
"Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend
Overton, and is in answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to
Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way,
is there any news of the match?"
"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent
account in its last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences
of the description say:
"The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely
attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of combination in the
three-quarter line and their weakness both in attack and defense more than neutralized
the efforts of a heavy and hardworking pack."
"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been
justified," said Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed tonight, Watson, for I
foresee that tomorrow. may be an eventful day."
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next
morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated
that instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the worst
when I saw it glittering in his hand.
He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid
it upon the table. "No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is
not upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be
the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes. I
have just returned from a small scouting expedition, and everything is favorable.
Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail
today, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to his
burrow."
"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our
breakfast with us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."
"Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he
can drive where I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in
the work that lies before us."
When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable
yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.
"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey
is the pride of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I
expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London gentlemen, so I
will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy,
come along, and show what you can do." He led him across to the doctor's door.
The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement
started off down the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster.
In half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.
"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.
"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful
upon occasion. I walked into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here
to John o'Groat's, and our friend, Armstrong, would have to drive through the
Cam before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is
how he gave me the slip the other night."
The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road
into a grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road,
and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we
had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town, and continued
in the opposite direction to that in which we started.
"This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit,
then?" said Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one
would like to know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be the
village of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham
coming round the corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!"
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging
the reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge
when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his
shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress. I could
tell by my companion's graver face that he also had seen.
"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,"
said he. "It cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage
in the field!"
There could be no doubt that we had reached the
end of our journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate, where
the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across
to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened onward.
My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again without response.
And yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a
kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably melancholy. Holmes
paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at the road which he had just traversed.
A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray horses.
"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes.
"That settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes."
He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall.
The droning sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I followed him.
He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both stood appalled at the sight before
us.
A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon
the bed. Her calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from
amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half
kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame was racked
by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until
Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
"Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"
"Yes, yes, I am—but you are too late. She
is dead."
The man was so dazed that he could not be made
to understand that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
Holmes was endeavoring to utter a few words of consolation and to explain the
alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance when there
was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of
Dr. Armstrong at the door.
"So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your
end and have certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion.
I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I were
a younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity."
"Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little
at cross-purposes," said my friend, with dignity. "If you could step downstairs
with us, we may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable
affair."
A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were
in the sitting-room below.
"Well, sir?" said he.
"I wish you to understand, in the first place,
that I am not employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter
are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain
his fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned, and so
long as there is nothing criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals
than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the law in
this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion and my cooperation in
keeping the facts out of the papers."
Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung
Holmes by the hand.
"You are a good fellow," said he. "I had misjudged
you. I thank heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make your acquaintance.
Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained. A year ago
Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached
to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was beautiful
and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But
Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that
the news of his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I could
to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep the thing from
everyone, for, when once such a whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone
has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me and to one excellent
servant, who has at present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there
came a terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he
had to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of it without
explanations which would expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and
he sent me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how
urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the
truth to the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey.
The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning
death put an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that
I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend."
Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.
"Come, Watson," said he, and we passed from that
house of grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day.