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“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,”
said he, as he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the spatulate
finger-ends, Watson, which is common to both professions? There is a spirituality about
the face, however”–she gently turned it towards the light–“which the
typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”
“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”
“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”
“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most
interesting associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we took Archie
Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you, near Farnham, on the
borders of Surrey?”
The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
following curious statement:
“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who
conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without a
relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years
ago, and we have never had a word from him since. When father died, we were left very
poor, but one day we were told that there was an advertisement in the Times,
inquiring for our whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that
someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was [528] given in the paper. There we met
two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa.
They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some months before in
great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt up
his relations, and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle
Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look after us
when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just
heard of the death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.”
“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this
interview?”
“Last December–four months ago.”
“Pray proceed.”
“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He
was for ever making eyes at me–a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with
his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he was perfectly
hateful–and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person.”
“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.
The young lady blushed and laughed.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer,
and we hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how did I get
talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious, but
that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,
clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired
how we were left, and on finding that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come
and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not like to leave my
mother, on which he suggested that I should go home to her every week-end, and he offered
me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I
went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was a widower,
but he had engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs.
Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything promised
well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings
together. Every week-end I went home to my mother in town.
“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the
red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh! it seemed three months
to me. He was a dreadful person–a bully to everyone else, but to me something
infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I married
him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and finally, when I would have nothing to
do with him, he seized me in his arms one day after dinner –he was hideously
strong–and swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers
came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon his own host, knocking him down and
cutting his face open. That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers
apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an insult
again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley since.
“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing
which has caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday forenoon
I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from
Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for
over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round
Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract of [529] road anywhere, and it is quite rare
to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury
Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my
shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed
to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham,
but the man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I
was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch
of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as
before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did not
molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr.
Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse
and trap, so that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without some
companion.
“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for
some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station. That was
this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charlington Heath, and there,
sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept so
far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did
not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face
that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I was filled
with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down
my machine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I
laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I pedalled very quickly
round this, and then I stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me
before he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner.
I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary, there
was no side road at this point down which he could have gone.” 
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case
certainly presents some features of its own,” said he. “How much time elapsed
between your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?”
“Two or three minutes.”
“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you
say that there are no side roads?”
“None.”
“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the
other.”
“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I
should have seen him.”
“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact
that he made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its
own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I
felt I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”
Holmes sat in silence for some little time.
“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he
asked at last.
“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at
Coventry.”
“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”
“Have you had any other admirers?”
“Several before I knew Cyril.”
[530] “And
since?”
“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call
him an admirer.”
“No one else?”
Our fair client seemed a little confused.
“Who was he?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to
me sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in me. We
are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening. He has never said
anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows.”
“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for
a living?”
“He is a rich man.”
“No carriages or horses?”
“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into
the city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold
shares.”
“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith.
I am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case. In
the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall
have nothing but good news from you.”
“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a
girl should have followers,” said Holmes, as he pulled at his meditative pipe,
“but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover, beyond
all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson.”
“That he should appear only at that point?”
“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the
tenants of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between Carruthers and
Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different type? How came they both to be so
keen upon looking up Ralph Smith’s relations? One more point. What sort of a menage
is it which pays double the market price for a governess but does not keep a horse,
although six miles from the station? Odd, Watson–very odd!”
“You will go down?”
“No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may
be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of
it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal yourself near Charlington
Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment advises.
Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and
report. And now, Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid
stepping-stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution.”
We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started early and caught the 9:13.
At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was
impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady’s adventure, for the road runs
between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park
which is studded with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded stone,
each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but besides this central
carriage drive I observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths
leading through them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all
spoke of gloom and decay.
The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind one of these
clumps I [531] took up my
position, so as to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the road
upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down
it from the opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit,
and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington grounds, he
sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist
appeared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look about
her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man emerged from his
hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape those
were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine,
and the man behind her bending low over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion
in every movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She
stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next movement
was as unexpected as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed
straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight.
Presently she came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to
take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still kept his
distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.
I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so,
for presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in at the Hall gates, and
dismounted from his machine. For some minutes I could see him standing among the trees.
His hands were raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his
cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and
peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old gray building with
its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery, and I saw no
more of my man.
However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good
morning’s work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent
could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well known firm in Pall
Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I
could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about
a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly
gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients
were not matters which he could discuss.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word of curt
praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was
even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done and the things
that I had not.
“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You
should have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view of this
interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and can tell me even
less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,
otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to
see his features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you
see. You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and you want to find
out who he is. You come to a London house agent!”
[532] “What
should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.
“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of
country gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the scullery-maid.
Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an elderly man he is not this active
cyclist who sprints away from that young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained
by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl’s story is true. I never doubted it.
That there is a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either.
That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well, well, my
dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do little more until next Saturday, and in
the meantime I may make one or two inquiries myself.”
Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting
shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the letter lay
in the postscript:
- I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes,
when I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the fact that my
employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings are most deep and
most honourable. At the same time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very
seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however, that the situation is a
little strained.
“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep
waters,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I
had originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the
country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories which I
have formed.”
Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular
termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip and a
discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation which would have
made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely
tickled by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them.
“I get so little active exercise that it is always a
treat,” said he. “You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; to-day, for example, I should
have come to very ignominious grief without it.”
I begged him to tell me what had occurred.
“I found that country pub which I had already recommended
to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and a garrulous
landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives
alone with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumor that he is or has
been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as
peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency, and
they tell me that there was a man of that name in orders, whose career has been a
singularly dark one. The landlord further informed me that there are usually week-end
visitors–‘a warm lot, sir’–at the Hall, and especially one gentleman
with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far as
this, when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in
the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I
mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very
vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander, which I failed to entirely
avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging
ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley [533]
went home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed
that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable
than your own.”
The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.
- You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear
that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile me
to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to
return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there
ever were any dangers, are now over.
As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious man, Mr.
Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to
have had an accident, and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but I am
glad to say I did not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much
excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he did not sleep
here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about in the
shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and
fear him more than I can say. How can Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a
moment? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday.
“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes,
gravely. “There is some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our
duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson, that we must
spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and
inclusive investigation has no untoward ending.”
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view
of the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous. That a
man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if
he has so little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from her
approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very different
person, but, except on one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was
doubtless a member of those week-end parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken,
but who he was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of
Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before
leaving our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk
behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse, seemed all the more
beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and drabs and slate grays of London. Holmes
and I walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing in
the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on the
shoulder of Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from amidst the
ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still younger than the building which they
surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band,
between the brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black dot,
we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.
[534] “I
have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her trap, she must be
making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will be past Charlington before we
can possibly meet her.”
From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer
see the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my sedentary life began to
tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes, however, was always in training,
for he had inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step
never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I
saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an
empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared round the curve of the
road and rattled swiftly towards us.
“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I
ran panting to his side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
It’s abduction, Watson– abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road!
Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can repair the
consequences of my own blunder.”
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the
horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road. As we turned
the curve, the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I
grasped Holmes’s arm.
“That’s the man!” I gasped.
A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down
and his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the
pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to
him, and pulled up, springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular
contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He
stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face.
“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his
bicycle to block our road. “Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he
yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say, or, by George,
I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the
cart.
“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet
Smith?” he said, in his quick, clear way.
“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her
dog-cart. You ought to know where she is.”
“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it.
We drove back to help the young lady.”
“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the
stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand by me and
we’ll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood.”
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in
the hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the road, followed
Holmes.
“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing
to the marks of several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute! Who’s
this in the bush?”
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a terrible cut
upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not
penetrated the bone.
“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger.
“He drove her. The beasts [535] have
pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t do him any good, but we may
save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees.
We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled up.
“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks
on the left–here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”
As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream–a scream which
vibrated with a frenzy of horror–burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in front
of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.
“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,”
cried the stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow me,
gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty oak,
there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and
faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal, heavy-faced,
red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving
a riding crop, his whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an
elderly, gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit, had evidently
just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and
slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.
“They’re married?” I gasped.
“Come on!” cried our guide; “come on!” He
rushed across the glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered
against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with
mock politeness, and the bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant
laughter.
“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he.
“I know you, right enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to
be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”
Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off
the dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long,
sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and covered the young
ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous riding crop swinging in his hand.
“Yes,” said our ally, “I am Bob
Carruthers, and I’ll see this woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you
what I’d do if you molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my
word.”
“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”
“No, she’s your widow.”
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the
front of Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back, his
hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in
his surplice, burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out
a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it, he was looking down the barrel of
Holmes’s weapon.
“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop
that pistol! Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me
that revolver. We’ll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!”
“Who are you, then?”
[536] “My
name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good Lord!”
“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the
official police until their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a frightened groom,
who had appeared at the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take this note as hard as you
can ride to Farnham.” He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook.
“Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I must detain
you all under my personal custody.”
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the
tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers found
themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave my arm to the
frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes’s request I
examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room
with his two prisoners before him.
“He will live,” said I.
“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his
chair. “I’ll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl,
that angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”
“You need not concern yourself about that,” said
Holmes. “There are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances, be
his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson’s right
to solemnize a marriage.”
“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.
“And also unfrocked.”
“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”
“I think not. How about the licence?”
“We had a licence for the marriage. I have it here in my
pocket.”
“Then you got it by a trick. But, in any case, a forced
marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before you
have finished. You’ll have time to think the point out during the next ten years or
so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your
pistol in your pocket.”
“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of
all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl–for I loved her, Mr. Holmes, and
it is the only time that ever I knew what love was–it fairly drove me mad to think
that she was in the power of the greatest brute and bully in South Africa–a man whose
name is a holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you’ll hardly
believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go
past this house, where I knew the rascals were lurking, without following her on my
bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a
beard, so that she should not recognize me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and
she wouldn’t have stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was
following her about the country roads.”
“Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?”
“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I
couldn’t bear to face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal to
me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her voice.”
“Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr.
Carruthers, but I should call it selfishness.”
“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I
couldn’t let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have
someone near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew they were bound to make
a move.”
“What cable?”
[537] Carruthers
took a telegram from his pocket.
“That’s it,” said he.
It was short and concise:
THE OLD MAN IS DEAD.
“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how
things worked, and I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a
head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”
The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
language.
“By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob
Carruthers, I’ll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl
to your heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if you round on your
pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be the worst day’s work that ever you
did.”
“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes,
lighting a cigarette. “The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a few
details for my private curiosity. However, if there’s any difficulty in your telling
me, I’ll do the talking, and then you will see how far you have a chance of holding
back your secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa on this
game–you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.”
“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never
saw either of them until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so
you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!”
“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.
“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our
own homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason to believe
he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit his fortune. How’s
that–eh?”
Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.
“She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that
the old fellow would make no will.”
“Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers.
“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the
girl. The idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a share of the
plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?”
“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”
“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and
there Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that he was, and
would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather upset by the
fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear the idea
of this ruffian owning her?”
“No, by George, I couldn’t!”
“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage,
and began to make his own plans independently of you.”
“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much
that we can tell this gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. “Yes,
we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then I lost
sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast padre here. I found that they
had set up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had to pass for the
station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I
saw them from [538] time to
time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days ago Woodley came up to my
house with this cable, which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would
stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and
give him a share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He said,
‘Let us get her married first, and after a week or two she may see things a bit
different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So he went off cursing,
like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She
was leaving me this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was
so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and
before I could catch her, the mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when
I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.”
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the
grate. “I have been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report you
said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery,
that alone should have told me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious
and, in some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the
drive, and I am glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it
is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently damaged by
their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that in your medical capacity, you might
wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy
to escort her to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent, you will find
that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would
probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you
could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my
evidence can be of help in your trial, it shall be at your disposal.”
In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been
difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and to
give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to
another, and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives.
I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which
I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and
that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the
famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and
assault, the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I
have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court,
since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few
months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.
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