 The Adventure of the Abbey Grange by Arthur Conan Doyle, 1859-1930 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Tomlinson It was a bitterly cold and frosty morning towards the end of the winter of 97 that I was awakened by tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss. Come, Watson, come! he cried. The game is afoot. Not a word. Into your clothes and come! Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct, in the offerless London reek. Holmes nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and taken our places in the kentish train that we were sufficiently thawed, he to speak an eye to listen. Holmes drew a note from his pocket and read aloud. Avie Grange Marsham Kent, 3.30 a.m. My dear Mr. Holmes, I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. Except for releasing the lady, I will see that everything is kept exactly as I have found it. But I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave so useless there. Yours faithfully, Stanley Hopkins. Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons has been entirely justified, said Holmes. I fancied that every one of his cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection which atones for much of which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a story, instead of a scientific exercise, has ruined what might have been an instructive and even classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy in order to dwell upon sensational details which may excite, but cannot possibly instruct the reader. Why do not write them yourself? I said with some bitterness. I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of a textbook which will focus the whole art of detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a case of murder. You think this so useless is dead, then? I should say so. Hopkins writing shows considerable agitation, and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson, crackling paper, e. b. monogram, coat of arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his reputation, and we shall have an interesting morning. The crime was committed before twelve last night. How can you possibly tell? By an inspection of the trains and by reckoning the time. The local police had to be called in. They had to communicate with Scotland Yard. Hopkins had to go out, and he, in turn, had to send for me. All that makes a fair night's work. Well, here we are at Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest. A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whose haggard faith bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park between lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of Palladia. The central park was evidently of a great age, and shrouded in ivy, but the large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful figure and alert eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins confronted us in the open doorway. I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes, and you too, Dr. Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of burglars? What, the three Randalls? Exactly, the father and two sons. It's their work, I have no doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago, and were seen and described, rather cool to do another so soon and so near, but it is they beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this time. Sir Eustis is dead, then. Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker. Sir Eustis Brackenstall, the driver tells me, exactly one of the richest men in Kent. Lady Brackenstall is in the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. She seemed half-dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the dining-room together. Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was of blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had the perfect complexion, which goes with such colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical, as well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and water. The lady lay back, exhausted upon a couch, but her quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequined-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her. I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins, she said, wearily. Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the dining-room yet? I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first. I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me to think of him still lying there. She shuddered and buried her face in her hands, as she did so the loose gown fell back from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation, You have other injuries, madam. What is this? Two vivid red spots stood out on one of the white round limbs. She hastily covered it. It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you all I can. I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempt to conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and highly spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon the land. God will not let such wickedness endure. For an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down onto the cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At last she continued, I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. The central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Teresa, sleeps above my room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who are in the father-wing. This must have been well known to the robbers, or they would not have acted as they did. So Eustace retired at about half past ten. The servants had already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have explained, so Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun room, the vineyard room, the drawing room, and finally the dining room. As I approached the window, which was covered with thick curtains, I suddenly felt the wind-love on my face and realised that it was open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face with a broad-shouldered elderly man who had just stepped into the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my hand, and by its light, behind the first man, I saw two others who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savage blow with his fist over the eye and felled me to the ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the velrope, and had secured me tightly to the open chair which stands at the head of the dining table. I was so firmly bound that I could not move, and the handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was dressed in night-shirt and trousers, with his favourite black-thorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the verglas, but another, it was an elderly man, stooped, kicked the poker out of the grate, and struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver from the side wall, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I've already told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the other's young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came over and made sure I was securely bound. Finally they withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly communicated with London. That is really all I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go over so painfully a story again. Any questions, Mr. Holmes, asked Hopkins. I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's patience and time, said Holmes. Before I go into the dining room, I should like to hear your experience. He looked at the maid. I saw the men before ever they came into the house, said she. As I sat by my bedroom window, I saw three men in the moonlight down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was more than an hour after I heard my mistress scream, and down I ran to find her poor dam, just as she says, and him on the floor, with his bladder-brains over the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with him. But she never wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide, and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey Grange, hasn't learnt new ways. You've questioned her long enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room, just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs. With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her mistress and led her from the room. She has been with her all her life, said Hopkins, nursed her as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr Holmes, if you please. The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face, and I knew that, with the mystery, all the charm of the case had departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplace robes that he should solve his hands with them? An obtuse and learned specialist who finds that he had been called in for a case of measles would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my friend's eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest. It was a very large and high chamber with carved oak ceiling, oak fanneling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient weapons around the walls. At the farther end from the door was the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the left was a large deep fireplace with a massive overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and crossfires at the bottom. In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the lady, the cord had been slept off her, but the knots with which it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the tiger-skin hearth-rug in front of the fire. It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, and his white teeth grinning through his short black beard. His two clenched hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, black-thorn stick lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were convolved into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He'd evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a foppish, embroidered night-shirt, and his bare feet projected from his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker bent into a curve by the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it had wrought. He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall, he remarked. Yes, said Hopkins, I have some record of the fellow, and he is a rough customer. You should have no difficulty in getting him. Not the slightest. We've been on the lookout for him, and there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know that the gang are here, I don't see how they can escape. We have the news at every seaport already, and the reward will be offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them, and that we would not fail to recognise the description. Exactly, one would have expected that they would silence Lady Brackenstall as well. They may not have realised, I suggested, that she had recovered from her faint. That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to have heard some queer stories about him. He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend when he was drunk, or rather when he was half-drunk, for he seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum, and setting it on fire, her ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse, and that was only hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at the maid, Theresa Wright. There was trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it would be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now? Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then he carefully scrutinised the broken and frayed end where it had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down. When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have rung loudly, he remarked. No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of the house. How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dare he pull at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion? Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You've put the very question which I've asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in close league with one of the servants. Surely, that is evident, but there are eight servants and all of good character. Other things being equal, said Holmes, one would suspect the one at whose head the master threw a decanter, and yet that would involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The Lady's story certainly seems to be corroborated if it needed corroboration by every detail which we see before us. He walked to the French window and threw it open. There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard and one would not expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have been lighted. Yes, it was by their light and that of the Lady's bedroom candle that the burglar saw their way about. And what did they take? Well, they did not take much. Only a half dozen articles of plate off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack the house as they would otherwise have done. No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I understand. To steady their nerves. Exactly, these three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched, I suppose. Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it. Let us look at it. Hello, hello! What is this? The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers had enjoyed. A change had come over Holmes' manner. He had lost his listless expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely. How did they draw it? he asked. Hopkins wanted to a half-open draw, in it lay some table linen and a large cork screw. Did Lady Frackstall say that screw was used? No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the bottle was opened. Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was not used. This bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his possession. Excellent, said Hopkins. But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Frackstall actually saw the three men drinking, did she not? Yes, she was clear about that. Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet you must admit that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable. Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps when a man has special knowledge and special powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good morning Hopkins. I don't see that I can be of any use to you and you appear to have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is arrested and any further developments which may occur. I trust that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful conclusion. Come Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves more profitably at home. During our return journey I could see by Holmes's face that he was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression and talk as if the matter were clear. But then his doubts would settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange in which this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to the platform and pulled me out after him. Excuse me, my dear fellow, said he as we watched the rear carriages of our train disappearing round a curve. I am sorry to make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply can't leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's wrong. It's all wrong. I swear that it's wrong. And yet the latest story was complete. The maid's corroboration was sufficient. The detail was fairly exact. What have I to foot up against that? Three wineglasses? That is all. But if I had not taken things for granted, if I'd examined everything with the care which I should have shown, had we approached the case de novo and had no cut and dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chisellhurst arrives and allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be permitted to warp our judgment. Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at it in cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as the rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again it is unusual for burglars to operate at so early an hour. It is unusual for burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream. It is unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man. It is unusual for them to be content with a limited plunder when there was much more within their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these unusual strike you, Watson? Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair. Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident that they must either kill her, or else secure her in such a way that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain element of improbability about the lady's story, and now on top of this comes the incident of the wine-glasses. What about the wine-glasses? Can you see them in your mind's eye? I see them clearly. We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you as likely? Why not? There was wine in each glass. Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind? The last glass filled would be the most likely to contain beeswing. Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that the first two glasses were clear, and the third heavily charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing. That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am right. What then do you suppose? There are only two glasses we used, and that the dregs of both were poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied to us that not one word of their story is to be believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal, and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and here Watson is the synonym train. The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the dining room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope, each in turn was minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate baronet had been removed and all else remained as we had seen it in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up onto the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few inches of red cord which was still attached to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it and then in an attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself which seemed to engage his attention. Finally he sprang down with an ejaculation of satisfaction. It's all right, Watson, said he. We have got our case, one of the most remarkable in our collection. But dear me, how slow-witted I have been and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime. Now I think that, with a few missing links, my chain is almost complete. You have got your men. Man, Watson, man, only one, but a very formidable person, strong as a lion, witnessed a blow that bent that poker. Six foot three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers. Finally remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual and yet in that bell rope he has given us a clue which should not have left us a doubt. Where was the clue? Well, if you were to pull down a bell rope, Watson, where would you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as this one has done? Because it is frayed there. Exactly. This end which we can examine is frayed. He was cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were on the mantelpiece you would see his cut clean off without any mark of fraying, whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred. The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on the bracket, you will see the impression in the dust, and so got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at least three inches, from which I infer that he is at least three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of the oaken chair. What is it? Blood. Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out of court. If she was seated on the chair when the crime was done, how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair after the death of her husband. I'll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our merengue. For it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse, Teresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the information which we want. She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse, taciturn, suspicious, ungracious. It took some time before Holmes's pleasant manner, and frank acceptance of all that she said thought her into a corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer. Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that you saw this morning, but I know very well that they came from a stab with a hatpin. The sly devil, God forgive me that I should speak of him now so, now that he is dead. But a devil he was if ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him, only eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first voyage. She had never been from home before. He won her with his title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a mistake, she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning room again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand. Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress's brow. I hope, said the lady, that you have not come to cross-examine me again. No, Holmes answered in his gentlest voice. I will not cause you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a much-tried woman. If you treat me as a friend and trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust. What do you want me to do? To tell me the truth. Mr. Holmes. No, no, Lady Brackenstall. It is no use. You may have heard of any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact that your story is an absolute fabrication. Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and frightened eyes. You are an impudent fellow, cried Theresa. Do you mean to say that my mistress has told a lie? Holmes rose from his chair. Have you nothing to tell me? I told you everything. Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be frank? For an instant there was a hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask. I have told you all I know. Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. I am sorry, he said, and without another word we left the room and the house. There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was frozen over, it was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it and then passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins and left it with the lodgekeeper. It may be a hit or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do something for friend Hopkins just to justify this second visit, said he. I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide Southampton line, which stands at the end of Palmel, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, but we would draw the larger cover first. Holmes's card sent in to the manager in short instant attention, and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed. In June of 1995 only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the Rock of Gibraltar, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser of Adelaide with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was now somewhere south of the Suez Canal, on her way to Australia. Her officers were the same as in 1995, with one exception. The first officer, Mr Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was to take charge of their new ship, the Base Rock, sailing in two days' time from Southampton. He lived in Sydenham, but he was likely to be in that morning for instructions if we cared to wait for him. No, Mr Holmes had no desire to see him, but he would be glad to know more about his record and character. His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild desperate fellow off the deck of his ship, hot-headed, excitable, but loyal, honest and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide Southampton Company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but instead of entering he sat in his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the Charing Cross Telegraph Office, sent off a message, and then at last we made for Baker Street once more. No, I couldn't do it, Watson, said he as we re-entered our room. Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather played tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more before we act. Before evening we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Things were not going very well with him. I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that pond? I didn't know it. But you told me to examine it. You got it, then. Yes, I got it. I am very glad if I have helped you. But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then throw it into the nearest pond? It was certainly rather eccentric behavior. I was merely going on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not want it, who merely took it for a blind, as it were, then they would naturally be anxious to get rid of it. But why should such an idea cross your mind? Well, I thought it was possible when they came out through the French window there was a pond with one tempting little hole in the ice right in front of their noses. Could there be a better hiding-place? Ah, a hiding-place! That is better! cried Stanley Hopkins. Yes, yes, I see it all now. It was early. They were folk upon the roads. They were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes. That is better than your idea of a blind. Quite so. You have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended in discovering the silver. Yes, so yes. It was all you're doing. But I've had a bad setback. A setback? Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this morning. Dear me, Hopkins. That is certainly rather against your theory that they committed a murdering Kent last night. It is fatal, Mr. Holmes. Absolutely fatal. Still, there are other groups of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of which the police have never heard. Quite so. It is perfectly possible. What? Are you off? Yes, Mr. Holmes. There is no rest for me until I've got to the bottom of this business. I suppose you have no hint to give me. I've given you one. Which? Well, I suggested a blind. But why, Mr. Holmes? Why? Ah, that's the question, of course, but I commend the idea to your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You won't stop for dinner? Well, goodbye, and let us know how you get on. Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch. I expect developments, Watson. When? Now, within a few minutes. I daresay you thought I acted rather badly to Stanley Hopkins just now. I trust your judgment. A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way. What I know is unofficial. What he knows is official. I have the right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information until my mind is clear upon the matter. But when will that be? The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a remarkable little drama. There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was open to admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a very tall young man, golden moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong. He closed the door behind him, and then stood with clenched fists and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering emotion. Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram. Our visitors sank into an armchair and looked from one to the other of us with questioning eyes. I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away from you. Let's hear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me? Speak out, man. You can't sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse. Give him a cigar, said Holmes. Bite on that, Captain Crocker, and don't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common criminal. You may be sure of that. Be frank with me, and we may do some good. Play tricks with me, and I'll crush you. What do you wish me to do? To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange last night. A true account, mind you, with nothing added or nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight, I'll blow this police whistle from my window, and the affair goes out of my hands forever. The sailor thought for a little, then he struck his leg with his great sunburned hand. I'll chance it, he cried. I believe you're a man of your word, and a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret nothing, and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Damn the beast! If he had as many lives as a cat, he would owe them all to me. But it's the lady, Mary, Mary Fraser, for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I think of getting her into trouble, I, who will give my life just to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my soul into water. And yet, and yet, what less could I do? I'll tell you my story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you, as man to man, what less could I do? I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that you know that I met her when she was a passenger, and I was the first officer of the Rock of Gibraltar. From the first day I met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage, I loved her more, and many a time since, have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch, and kissed the deck of that ship, because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted, she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free man. Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well, why shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money. Who could carry them better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and dainty. I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That's how I loved Mary Fraser. Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a country lane, I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not worthy to lick. I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself, and met her again. Then she would meet me no more, but the other day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week, and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room downstairs. I crept round there last night, and scratched at the window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman, and wilted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I sprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here on my arm, where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry, not I? It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what would either of you gentlemen have done if you had been in my position? She had screened when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary's lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much as mine. We must make it appear that Burglars had done the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look natural. Else she would wonder how in the world a burglar could have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and pots of silver to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I left them with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of an hour start. I dropped the silver into the pond and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real good night's work, and that's the truth and the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it cost me my neck. Holmes smoked for some time in silence, then he crossed the room and shook our visitor by the hand. That's what I think, said he. I know that every word is true, for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bellrope from the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life since she was trying hard to shield him and so showing that she loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once I had started upon the right trail. I thought the police could never have seen through our dodge, and the police haven't, nor will they, to the best of my belief. Now look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter, though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I'm not sure that in defense of your own life your action will not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile, I have so much sympathy for you that if you choose to disappear in the next 24 hours, I will promise you that no one will hinder you. And then it will all come out. Certainly it will come out. The sailor flushed with anger. What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you think I would ever leave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts. Holmes for a second time held at his hand to the sailor. I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. It is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given Hopkins an excellent hint, and if you can't avail himself of it, I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we will do this in due form of law. You are the prisoner, Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to represent one. Evidence, do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty? Not guilty, my Lord, said I. Vox poppulie, vox day, you are a quitted, Captain Crocker, so long as the law does not find some other victim, you are safe from me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this night. End of The Adventure of the Abbey Grange by Arthur Conan Doyle Recording by Peter Tomlinson The Adventure of Black Peter by Arthur Conan Doyle 1859-1930 This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Peter Tomlinson 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 amateurs, lived for his art's sake, and, saving the case of the Duke of Holderness, 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 of 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 deaths 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 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 butchers and back. The butchers? And I returned with an excellent appetite. There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast, but I am prepared to vet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has taken. I will not attempt it. He chuckled as he pulled out the coffee. If you could have looked into Aladise's back shop, you would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling and a gentleman in his shirts leaves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that energetic person and I 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 recognised him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future homes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins' brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection. No, thank you, sir. I've requested 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. Numb. 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'm at my wit's end. For goodness sake, come down and lend me a hand. Well, well, it just happens that I've 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 seal skin, and it 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, 50 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 travelled for some years, and finally he brought a small place called Woodman's Lea, 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, age 20, and two female servants. These lasts 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 had 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 demonstrate with him upon his conduct. In short, Mr. Hong, 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 swordy features and the colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I need not say that he was loath and avoided by every one of his neighbours, 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. Hong, that 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. Hong's, which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came out at the inquest. You remember that a stone mason 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 the window open, heard a most fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to ball 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 blue bottles and the flooring 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 brindle 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 SSC Unicorn Dundee. This seemed to establish that the crime had been done in the 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 both inferences are permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room? Yes, there was a tantalist 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 course, seal-skin, 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 discoloured. 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 wave, 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 Paola, each with pages of signs and figures after it. What do you make of these? asked Holmes. There appear to be lists of stock exchange securities. I thought that J.H.N. were the initials of a broker and that C.P.R. 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've 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. Charlotte Holmes' trace 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 endeavour 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 discolouration here, said he. Yes, sir, it is a blood stain. I told you that I picked the book off the floor. Was the blood stain above or below? On the side next to 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 was happened 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. A lighting 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 scarves 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 grey-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 divinely at us, as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed a 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 roof, one window beside the door, and one on the father's 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 waterwork 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 failed to make his way in, he must have been a very poor burglar. This is the 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 pen knife. He could not manage it. What would he do? Come again next night with a more useful tool. So I should say it would be our fault if we were 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 clutched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villages, 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. How fast to a chime then it was the darkest hour which precedes the dawn. As we all started, as a low but sharp click came from the direction of the gate, someone had entered to 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 a 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 gall's curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within. The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I'd 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 log books 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'd hardly turned to leave the hut, when Hopkins 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 Hopely Nelligan. 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 Nelligan? I could see from Hopkins' 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 Nelligan disappeared. Exactly, Nelligan 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 realise 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, and can remember that last night when he bad fell well to my mother. He left us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his honour 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 Arthur 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 was a businessman, 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 had 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 my 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 the description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old logwoods 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 log-books, 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's 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 nonetheless, I am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Bramble Ty Hotel so we can all walk down to the village together. Well, Watson, what do you think of it? asked Holmes as we travel 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' 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 telegraphed Holmes? Just write a couple of messages for me. Sumner, Shipping Agent, Ratcliffe Highway. Send three men on to arrive ten tomorrow morning. Basil. That's my name in those parts. The other is Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46th Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast tomorrow at 9.30, important. Why, if unable to come, Sherlock Holmes? There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby vanish it completely from my presence. Tomorrow I trust we shall hear the last of it for ever. Shaffer 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 Nelligan arrived at the Bramble-Tye 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 others, the great majority, were not. Those which are ticked have been traced to the London market, but the others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and young Nelligan, 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? Tap, tap, 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 could not abandon his position without a struggle. You can't deny that Nelligan 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 to enter was a little rib-stone piffing 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 birth 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 sullow cheeks. His name was Hugh Patton's. 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 Kens. 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 seamen 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 past 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 seamen 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 muscle 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 apologise, 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, humbly. 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 Nelligan, that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Cairing. The horse's voice of the seamen broke in on our conversation. Say here, Mr. said he, I make no complaint of being manhandled in this fashion, but I would have you call things in their right names. You say I murdered Peter Cairing, I say I killed Peter Cairing, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say, maybe you think I'm 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 on when he pulled out his knife. I whipped a hard poon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he died. You call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon as 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 to you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so I can speak easy. It was in 83 that it happened, August of that year, Peter Cairing was master of the sea unicorn, and I was fair harpooner. We were coming out of the ice pack on our way home, with headwinds and a weak 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 found her, 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 tie 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 guess that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and 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 used 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, splitting and cursing with murder in his eyes and a great clasp of 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 vacay pouch upon the table. Now I tell you the queerest part of the whole story, and hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the bushes. A man came sneaking along and 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 pass I walked ten miles, got a train to Tumbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one though wiser. Well, when I came to examine the box, I found that 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 Lord 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 Keynes 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 seal-skin tobacco pouch, with the coarse tobacco, all these pointed to a seamen, 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 whiskey 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 seamen. And how did you find him? My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a seamen, it could only be a seamen 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 to ascertain 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 their result. Wonderful! cried Hopkins. Wonderful! You must obtain the release of young Nelligan 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 the particulars later. End of The Adventure of Black Peter by Arthur Conan Doyle Recording by Peter Tomlinson