 Adventure 4. The Boscombe Valley Mystery. We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes, and ran in this way. Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England, in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 1115." What do you say, dear? said my wife, looking across at me. Will you go? I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present. Oh! and Strother would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases. I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them, I answered. But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour. My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated, I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform. His tall gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling cloak and close fitting cloth cap. It is really very good of you to come, Watson, said he. It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. If you will keep the two corner seats, I shall get the tickets. We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack. Have you heard anything of the case? He asked. Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days. The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult. That sounds a little paradoxical. But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and common place a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man. It is a murder, then. Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you as far as I have been able to understand it in a very few words. Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr John Turner, who made his money in Australia, and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held that of Hathillie was led to Mr Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down, they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant, but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families, and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthy's were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants, a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts. On June 3, that is on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hathillie, about three in the afternoon, and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive. From Hathillie Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses deposed that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass, he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred. The two McCarthy's were seen after the time when William Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodgekeeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the wood's picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw at the border of the wood and close by the lake Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthy's quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodgekeeper. He was much excited without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of willful murder having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next to Sizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police court. I could hardly imagine a more damning case, I remarked. If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here. Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing, answered Holmes thoughtfully. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the study in Scarlett, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home. I am afraid, said I, that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact, he answered, laughing. Besides, we made chance to hit upon some other obvious facts, which may have been by no means obvious to Miss Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting, when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory, by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that. How on earth? My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you'll shave by the sunlight. But since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my Metieu, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest and which are worth considering. What are they? It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hathalie Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury. It was a confession, I ejaculated. No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence. Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark. On the contrary, said Holmes, it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural, if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind, rather than of a guilty one. I shook my head. Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence, I remarked. So they have, and many men have been wrongfully hanged. What is the young man's own account of the matter? It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself. He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet, he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way. Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows. I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday the third. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and looking out of my window I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit-warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he had stated in his evidence, but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of koo-ee, which is the usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words, and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hathorley Farm. I had not gone more than a hundred and fifty yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodgekeeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter. The coroner—did your father make any statement to you before he died? Witness. He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat. The coroner—what did you understand by that? Witness. It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious. The coroner—what was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel? Witness. I should prefer not to answer. The coroner—I am afraid that I must press it. Witness. It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed. The coroner—that is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise. Witness. I must still refuse. The coroner—I understand that the cry of Kui was a common signal between you and your father. Witness. It was. The coroner—how was it then that he uttered it before he saw you and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol? Witness with considerable confusion. I do not know. A juryman—did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on here in the cry and found your father fatally injured? Witness. Nothing definite. The coroner—what do you mean? Witness. I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open that I could think of nothing except my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone. Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help? Yes, it was gone. You cannot say what it was. No, I had a feeling something was there. How far from the body? A dozen yards or so. And how far from the edge of the wood? About the same. Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it. Yes, but with my back towards it. This concluded the examination of the witness. I see, said I, as I glanced down the column, that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him. Also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the sun. Holmes laughed softly to himself, and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. Both you and the coroner have been at some pains, said he, to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination, and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel, which would give him the sympathy of the jury. Too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness, anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whether that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case, until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes. It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad, gleaming seven, found ourselves at the pretty little country town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light-brown dustcoat and leather leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms, where a room had already been engaged for us. I have ordered a carriage, said Lestrade, as we sat over a cup of tea. I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime. It was very nice and complimentary of you, Holmes answered. It is entirely a question of barometric pressure. Lestrade looked startled. I do not quite follow, he said. How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a case full of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country-hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night. Lestrade laughed indulgently. You have no doubt already formed your conclusions from the newspapers. He said, the case is as plain as a pike-staff, and the more one goes into it, the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul, here is her carriage at the door. He had hardly spoken before they are rushed into the room, one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern. Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion. I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does, but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him. I hope we make clear him, Miss Turner, said Sherlock Holmes. You may rely upon my doing all that I can. But you have read the evidence, you have formed some conclusion. Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent? I think that it is very probable. There now! she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. You hear? He gives me hopes! Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions, he said. But he is right! Oh, I know that he is right! James never did it! And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it. In what way? asked Holmes. It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister. But, of course, he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and, and, well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them. And your father, asked Holmes, was he in favour of such a union? No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it. A quick blush passed over her fresh young face, as Holmes shot one of his keen questioning glances at her. Thank you for this information, said he. May I see your father if I call to-morrow? I am afraid the doctor won't allow it. The doctor? Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willow says that he is a wreck, and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria. Ah, in Victoria. That is important. Yes, at the mines. Quite so, at the gold mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money. Yes, certainly. Thank you, Mr. Turner. You have been of material assistance to me. You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow? No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent. I will, Mr. Turner. I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Goodbye. And God help you in your undertaking." She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. I am ashamed of you, Holmes, said Lestrade, with dignity after a few minutes' silence. Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over tender of heart, but I call it cruel. I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy, said Holmes. Have you an order to see him in prison? Yes, but only for you and me. Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night. I'm Paul. Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be aware a couple of hours. I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa, and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact that I at last flung it across the room, and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade. It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone, and the left half of the occipital bone, had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still it might be worthwhile to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by Young McCarthy. If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardy hood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the sun was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. Water, tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was. I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion. And yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of Young McCarthy's innocence. It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. The glass still keeps very high. He remarked as he sat down, it is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen Young McCarthy. And what did you learn from him? Nothing. Could he throw no light? None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it, and was screening him or her. But I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at. And I should think sound at heart. I cannot admire his taste, I remarked, if it is indeed a fact that he was a verse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner. Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly insanely in love with her. But some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol, and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be up braided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father at their last interview was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point, it is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly, and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered. But if he is innocent, who has done it? Ah, who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry koo wee before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow. End of the first part of Adventure Four, the Boscombe Valley mystery. Part two of Adventure Four from the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Adventure Four, the Boscombe Valley mystery. Part two. There was no rain as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hathley Farm and the Boscombe Pool. There is serious news this morning, Lestrade observed. It is said that Mr. Turner of the Hall is so ill that his life is despaird of. An elderly man, I presume, said Holmes. About sixty, but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and I may add a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hathley Farm rent-free. Indeed, that is interesting, said Holmes. Oh, yes, in a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him. Really? Does it not strike you, as a little singular, that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is presumably heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that? Oh, we have got to the deductions and the inferences, said Lestrade, winking at me. I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies. You are right, said Holmes, demurely. You do find it very hard to tackle the facts. Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of, replied Lestrade with some warmth. And that is, that McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior, and that all theories, to the contrary, are the merest moonshine. Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog, said Holmes, laughing. But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hathily Farm upon the left. Yes, that is it. It was a widespread, comfortable looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid at Holmes' request showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the suns, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the courtyard, from which we all followed the winding track, which led to Boscombe Pool. Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a cent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whip-cord in his long sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or at the most only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Listard and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end. The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hathorley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red jutting pinnacles which marked the sight of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hathorley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass, twenty paces across, between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Listard showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and indeed so moist was the ground that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. Till Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who was picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion. What did you go into the pool for? he asked. I fished about with a rake, I thought there might be some weapon or other trace, but how on earth—oh, tut, tut, I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo, and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodgekeeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet. He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha, what have we here? Tiptoes, tiptoes, square, two, quite unusual boots. They come, they go, they come again. Of course, that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from? He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track, until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beach, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this, and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope, and examining with his lens not only the ground, but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood, until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost. It has been a case of considerable interest, he remarked, returning to his natural manner. I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently. It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, home still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood. This may interest you, Lestrade, he remarked, holding it out. The murder was done with it. I say no, Marx. There are none. How do you know, then? The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon. And the murderer is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting boots, and a grey cloak. Smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search. Lestrade laughed. I am afraid that I am still a sceptic, he said. Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury. Nous verrons, answered Holmes calmly. You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train. And leave your case unfinished? No, finished. But the mystery—it is solved. Who was the criminal, then? The gentleman I describe. But who is he? Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am a practical man, he said, and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a gammy leg. I should become the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. All right—said Holmes quietly. I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings, good-bye. I shall drop your line before I leave. Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought, with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position. Look here, Watson! he said, when the cloth was cleared. Just sit down in this chair, and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar, and let me expound. Pray do, sir. Well, now, in considering this case, there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative, which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry koo-ee before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now, from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true. What of this koo-ee, then? Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within ear-shot. The koo-ee was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But koo-ee is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombepool was someone who had been in Australia. What of the rat, then? Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. This is a map of the colony of Victoria, he said. I wired to Bristol for it last night. He put his hand over part of the map. What do you read? A rat, I read. And now he raised his hand. Ballarat! Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer, so and so of Ballarat. It is wonderful! I exclaimed. It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point, which granting the son's statement to be correct was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak. Certainly. And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander. Quite so. Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground, I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal. But how did you gain them? You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles. His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride, his boots too might be told from their traces. Yes, they were peculiar boots. But his lameness! The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped. He was lame. But his left-handedness! You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury, as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now how can that be, unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of a hundred and forty different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moths where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam. And the cigar-holder? I could see that the end had not been in his mouth, therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt penknife. Holmes, I said, you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life, as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is— Mr. John Turner cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor. The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance. But his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of bloom. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease. "'Praise sit down on the sofa,' said Holmes gently. "'You had my note.' "'Yes, the lodgekeeper brought it up. You said that you wish to see me here to avoid scandal.' "'I thought people would talk if I went to the hall.' "'And why did you wish to see me?' He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered. "'Yes,' said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "'It is so. I know all about McCarthy.' The old man sank his face in his hands. "'God help me,' he cried. "'But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I'd give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at your sizes.' "'I am glad to hear you say so,' said Holmes gravely. "'I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart. It will break her heart when she hears that I'm arrested.' "'It may not come to that,' said Holmes.' "'What?' "'I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here. And I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.' "'I am a dying man,' said old Turner. "'I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail.' Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. "'Just tell us the truth,' he said. "'I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.' "'It's as well,' said the old man. "'It's a question whether I shall live to the assizes so it matters little to me. But I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you. It has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.' "'You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power. It was in the early sixties at the Diggings. I was a young chap then hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything. I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush and, in a word, became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild free life of it. Sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the Diggings. Blackjack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat gang. One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wished to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals, and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married too, and though my wife died young, she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby, her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf, and did my best to make out for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me. I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street, with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot. Here we are, Jack, says he, touching me on the arm. We'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't, it's a fine law abiding country, is England, and there's always a policeman within hail. Well, down they came to the West Country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent-free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness. Turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question. Land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl. And as I was known to be in weak health it seemed to find stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm, I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine. Not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm, McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over. When I went down there I found him talking with his son. So I smoked a cigar, and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk, all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come up a most. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it, but that my girl should be entangled in the same ashes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son, but I had gained the cover of the wood though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred. Well, it is not for me to judge you, said Holmes, as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation. I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do? In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the assizes. I will keep your confession. And if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal I. And your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be seen by mortal I. Fair well, then, said the old man solemnly, Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine. Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room. God help us, said Holmes, after a long silence. Why does fate play such tricks with poor helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this, that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, There but for the grace of God goes Sherlock Holmes. James McCarthy was acquitted at the assizes, on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead. And there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together, in ignorance of the black cloud, which rests upon their past. End of Adventure 4 The Boscombe Valley Mystery Adventure 5 Of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle This Librirox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Adventure 5 The Five Orange Pips When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years 82 and 90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features, that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so higher degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending. While others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise, than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details, and so startling in its results, that I am tempted to give some account of it, in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it, which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up. The year 87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings, under this one-twelve months, I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British bark Sophie Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patterson's in the Island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time, a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe. It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoxial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed, and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here, in the heart of great hand-made London, we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life, and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace, cross-indexing his records of crime, while I, at the other, was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories, until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea-waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street. Why, said I, glancing up at my companion, that was surely the bell. Who could come to night, some friend of yours, perhaps? Except yourself, I have none. He answered, I do not encourage visitors. A client, then? If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady's. Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself, and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. Come in, said he. The man who entered was young, some two and twenty at the outside, well groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof, told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety. I owe you an apology, he said, raising his golden parsonet to his eyes. I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber. Give me your coat and umbrella, said Holmes. They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south west, I see. Yes, from Horsham. That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe-caps is quite distinctive. I have come for advice. That is easily got. And help. That is not always so easy. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tancerville Club scandal. Ah, of course, he was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards. He said that you could solve anything. He said too much. That you are never beaten. I have been beaten four times, three times by men and once by a woman. But what is that compared with the number of your successes? It is true that I have been generally successful. Then you may be so with me. I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case. It is no ordinary one. None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal. And yet I question, sir, whether in all your experience you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family. You fill me with interest, said Holmes. Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important. The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze. My name, said he, is John Openshore, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter. So, in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair. You must know that my grandfather had two sons, my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patenteer of the Openshore Unbreakable Tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence. My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man, and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe, and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the Negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy, and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother. He didn't mind me. In fact he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him, and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I hath peaked through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room. One day it was in March 1883, a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the Colonel's plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. From India, said he, as he took it up, ponded cherry postmark. What can this be? Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which patted down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of potty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand. KKK! he shrieked, and then, my God, my God, my sins have overtaken me. What is it, Uncle? I cried. Death! said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw a scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K, three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast table and, as I ascended the stair, I met him coming down with an old rusty key which must have belonged to the attic in one hand, and a small brass box like a cash box in the other. They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still! said he, with an oath, tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham the Horsham lawyer. I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black fluffy ashes as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed with a start that upon the lid was printed the treble K, which I had read in the morning upon the envelope. I wish you, John, said my Uncle, to witness my will. I leave my estate with all its advantages and all its disadvantages to my brother, your father, whence it will no doubt descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace well and good. If you find you cannot take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you. I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind, without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed, and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my Uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man and that he was not to be cooped up like a sheep in a pen by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush too multuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face even on a cold day glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin. Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him when we went to search for him face downward in a little green scummed pool which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his no-next centricity, brought in a verdict of suicide. But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some fourteen thousand pounds, which laid to his credit at the bank. One moment, Holmes, interposed. Your statement is I foresee one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter. And the date of his supposed suicide. The letter arrived on March the 10th, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May the 2nd. Thank you. Pray proceed. When my father took over the Horsham property, he at my request made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label with the initials of KKK repeated upon it, and letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshore. For the rest there was nothing of much importance in the attic, save a great many scattered papers and notebooks bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the wartime, and showed that he had done his duty well, and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern States, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North. Well, it was the beginning of eighty-four when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of eighty-five. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand, and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull's story about the Colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself. Why, what on earth does this mean, John? He stammered. My heart had turned to lead. It is KKK, said I. He looked inside the envelope. So it is, he cried. Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them? Put the papers on the sundial. I read peeping over his shoulder. What papers? What sundial? He asked. The sundial in the garden there is, no other, said I. But the papers must be those that are destroyed. Poo! said he, gripping hard at his courage. We are in a civilised land here, and we can't have Tom foolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from? From Dundee, I answered, glancing at the postmark. Some preposterous practical joke, said he. What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense. I should certainly speak to the police, I said. And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort. Then let me do so. No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense. It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings. On the third day after the coming of the letter, my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, major free body, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was father from danger, when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence, I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk pits, which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Ferrum in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him and the chalk pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of death from accidental causes. Carefully, as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no foot marks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet, I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it. I answer because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. It was in January 85 that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however. Yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father. The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. This is the envelope, he continued. The postmark is London, Eastern Division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message, K, K, K, and then put the papers on the sundial. What have you done? asked Holmes. Nothing. Nothing? To tell the truth, he sank his face into his thin white hands. I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless inexorable evil which no foresight and no precautions can guard against. Tart, tart! cried Sherlock Holmes. You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair. I have seen the police. Ah! But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the Inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents as the jury stated and were not to be connected with the warnings. Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. Incredible imbecility! he cried. They have, however, allowed me a policeman who may remain in the house with me. Has he come with you to-night? No, his orders were to stay in the house. Again Holmes raved in the air. Why did you come to me? he cried. And above all, why did you not come at once? I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you. It is really to-day since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us. No suggested detail which might help us. There is one thing, said John Openshore. He rummaged in his coat pocket and drawing out a piece of discoloured blue-tinted paper. He laid it out upon the table. I have some remembrance, said he, that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has perhaps fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps as much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's. Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed March 1869, and beneath were the following enigmatic notices. Fourth, Hudson came, same old platform. Seventh, set the pips on Macaulay, Paramore and John Swain of St. Augustine. Ninth, Macaulay cleared. Tenth, John Swain cleared. Twelfth, visited Paramore all well. Thank you! said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act. What shall I do? There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand? Entirely. Do not think of revenge or anything of the sort at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law, but we have our web to weave while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties. I thank you, said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise. Do not lose an instant. And above all take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back? By train from Waterloo. It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety, and yet you cannot guard yourself too closely. I am armed. That is well. Tomorrow I shall set to work upon your case. I shall see you at Horsham, then? No. Your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it. Then I shall call upon you in a day or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular. He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside, the wind still screamed, and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements, blown in upon us like a sheet of seaweed in a gale, and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.