Chapter VII: Part 7

“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as
compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than
that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention
you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger
hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to
fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see
that the second man had a squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between
the ‘at’ and the ‘to,’ showing that the latter were already
written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the
man who planned the affair.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.

“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a
point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the
deduction of a man’s age from his writing is one which has been
brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one
can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I
say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness
reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth.
In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and
the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still
retains its legibility although the t’s have begun to lose their
crossing, we can say that the one was a young man and the other
was advanced in years without being positively decrepit.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.

“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of
greater interest. There is something in common between these
hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most
obvious to you in the Greek e’s, but to me there are many small
points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that
a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of
writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now
of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other
deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to
you. They all tend to deepen the impression upon my mind that the
Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into
the details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us.
I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was
to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to
determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the
distance of something over four yards. There was no
powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec
Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling
when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to
the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the
bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks about this
ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had
again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon
the scene at all.

“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To
get at this, I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of
the original burglary at Mr. Acton’s. I understood, from
something which the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been
going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course,
it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your
library with the intention of getting at some document which
might be of importance in the case.”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt
as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of
their present estate, and if they could have found a single
paper—which, fortunately, was in the strong-box of my
solicitors—they would undoubtedly have crippled our case.”

“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous,
reckless attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young
Alec. Having found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by
making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they
carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all
clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I
wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was
certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man’s hand, and
almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his
dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find
out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside
the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance
that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper,
otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The
Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached
to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down
in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation.

“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say
all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”

“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I,
looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me
with some new phase of his astuteness.

“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered
I managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of
ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’ so
that I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.

“I could see that you were commiserating me over my weakness,”
said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic
pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together,
and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up
behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage
their attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the
pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however—which was, as I had
expected, in one of them—when the two Cunninghams were on me, and
would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for
your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man’s
grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round
in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I
must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from
absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly
desperate.

“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the
motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was
a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else’s
brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw
that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart and
made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had
secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made
their raid upon Mr. Acton’s, and having thus got them into his
power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy blackmail
upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games
of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part
to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing the country
side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he
feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had they only got
the whole of the note and paid a little more attention to detail
in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might
never have been aroused.”

“And the note?” I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.
piece of paper

If you will only come round at quarter to twelve
to the east gate you will learn what
will very much surprise you and maybe
be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone
upon the matter

“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been
between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The
results shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that
you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown
in the p’s and in the tails of the g’s. The absence of the i-dots
in the old man’s writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I
think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success,
and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street
to-morrow.”

VIII. The Crooked Man

One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by
my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for
my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already
gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some
time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had
risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when
I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not
be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and
possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into
the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock
Holmes who stood upon my step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to
catch you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!
You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!
There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to
tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep
that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could
you put me up to-night?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see
that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand
proclaims as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that
you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of
evil. Not the drains, I hope?”

“No, the gas.”

“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper
at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing
but business of importance would have brought him to me at such
an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said
he, glancing very keenly across at me.

“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish
in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced
it.”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”
said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is
a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,
although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are
at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the
reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point
which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my
dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of
yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon
your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem
which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in
the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand
several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever
perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are
needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll
have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his
thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face
had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many
regard him as a machine rather than a man.

“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even
say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into
the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my
solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might
be of considerable service to me.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

“That would give me time.”

“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of
what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”

“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even
have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder
of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I
am investigating.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts
are only two days old. Briefly they are these:

“The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea
and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon
every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by
James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,
was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of
the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had
once carried a musket.

“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,
and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the
daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There
was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction
when the young couple (for they were still young) found
themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to
have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I
understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as
her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was
a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been
married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking
and queenly appearance.

“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly
happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures
me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the
pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife
was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if
he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though
devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they
were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged
couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to
prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.

“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits
in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his
usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show
himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This
side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned
towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and
three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,
was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.
As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from
his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining
the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when
the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This
and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits
in his character which his brother officers had observed. The
latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left
alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature
which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and
conjecture.

“The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old
117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The
married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during
all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile
from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the
west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.
A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with
their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for
the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have
resident visitors.

“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the
evening of last Monday.”

“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic
Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment
of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with
the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with
cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that
evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in
order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard
by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,
and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She
then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next
villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted
forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned
home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This
faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from
the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into
this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were
not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.
Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane
Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was
quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting
in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he
joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the
hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.

“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised
to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious
altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even
turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon
the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and
the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and
listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed
that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of
his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none
of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other
hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be
plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.
‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my
life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her
conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,
with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced
that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door
and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from
within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids
were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A
sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall
door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows
open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was
quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty
into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was
stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted
over the side of an armchair, and his head upon the ground near
the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone
dead in a pool of his own blood.

“Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he
could do nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here
an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The key
was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it
anywhere in the room. He went out again, therefore, through the
window, and having obtained the help of a policeman and of a
medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom naturally the
strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a
state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was then placed upon
the sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the
tragedy.

“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of
his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from
a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon
may have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a
singular club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel
possessed a varied collection of weapons brought from the
different countries in which he had fought, and it is conjectured
by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants
deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in
the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked.
Nothing else of importance was discovered in the room by the
police, save the inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs.
Barclay’s person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of
the room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually
to be opened by a locksmith from Aldershot.

“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday
morning I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot
to supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will
acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but
only succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already
stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by Jane
Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the
sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with the other
servants. On that first occasion, when she was alone, she says
that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk so low that
she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones rather
than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,
however, she remembered that she heard the word ‘David’ uttered
twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as
guiding us towards the reason of the sudden quarrel. The
Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.

“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the
contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their
account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror
which a human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one
person fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the
effect. It was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and
that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted
in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have
seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the
fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection
to this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No
information could be got from the lady herself, who was
temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.

“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember
went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any
knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humour in which
her companion had returned.

“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others
which were merely incidental. There could be no question that the
most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the
singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had
failed to discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been
taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife
could have taken it. That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third
person must have entered the room. And that third person could
only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a
careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly
reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my
methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply
to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very
different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a
man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the
road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his
footmarks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones
upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He
had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were
much deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised
me. It was his companion.”

“His companion!”

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some
small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of
long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a
dessert-spoon.

“It’s a dog,” said I.

“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found
distinct traces that this creature had done so.”

“A monkey, then?”

“But it is not the print of a monkey.”

“What can it be, then?”

“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are
familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the
measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been
standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen
inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and
head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet
long—probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this
other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the
length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches.
You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short
legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave
any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be what I
have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
carnivorous.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in
the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

“Then what was the beast?”

“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards
solving the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of
the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than any of these
that I have seen.”

“But what had it to do with the crime?”

“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal,
you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were up and the room
lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck
the Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell
down from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on
the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that
the intruder carried away the key with him when he left.”

“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure
that it was before,” said I.

“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much
deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over,
and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from
another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I
might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot
to-morrow.”

“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was
never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but
she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a
friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately
on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least
likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman
will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had broken into
violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between
seven-thirty and nine o’clock which had completely altered her
feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during
the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain,
therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know something
of the matter.

“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some
passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the
former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the
angry return, and also for the girl’s denial that anything had
occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the
words overheard. But there was the reference to David, and there
was the known affection of the Colonel for his wife, to weigh
against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other
man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with what
had gone before. It was not easy to pick one’s steps, but, on the
whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been
anything between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than
ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it
was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I
took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
Morrison, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that
she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that
her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a
capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.

“Miss Morrison is a little, ethereal slip of a girl, with timid
eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting in
shrewdness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after
I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of
resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will
condense for your benefit.

“‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter,
and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help
her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her
own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am
absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened
upon Monday evening.

“‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter
to nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street,
which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it,
upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a
man coming towards us with his back very bent, and something like
a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be
deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees
bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us
in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he
stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it’s
Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have
fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of
her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise,
spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

“‘“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said
she, in a shaking voice.

“‘“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that
he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in
his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and
whiskers were shot with grey, and his face was all crinkled and
puckered like a withered apple.

“‘“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want
to have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and
could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

“‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few
minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and
I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking
his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She
never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took
me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened.

“‘“It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the
world,” said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she
kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now
the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is
because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend
stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that
everything should be known.’

“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine,
it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been
disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I
had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My
next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a
remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in
Aldershot it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not
such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was
sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search,
and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The
man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same
street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in
the place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most
interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a
conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,
and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some
creature about with him in that box; about which the landlady
seemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seen
an animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to
her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that
it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and
that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the
last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his
bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, but in his
deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She
showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it
is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted
from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the
quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he
rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got
loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in
this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”

“And you intend to ask him?”

“Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”

“And I am the witness?”

“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and
good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
warrant.”

“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”

“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my
Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him
like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson
Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal
myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the
tragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at
once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing
his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of
suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that
half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably
experienced when I associated myself with him in his
investigations.

“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short
thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here
is Simpson to report.”

“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,
running up to us.

“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come
along, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a
message that he had come on important business, and a moment
later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.
In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and
the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and
huddled in his chair in a way which gave an indescribable
impression of deformity; but the face which he turned towards us,
though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable
for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of
yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he
waved towards two chairs.

“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.
“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”

“What should I know about that?”

“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that
unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old
friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”

The man gave a violent start.

“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know
what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you
tell me?”

“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to
arrest her.”

“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours, then?”

“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

“You can take my word that she is innocent.”

“Then you are guilty.”

“No, I am not.”

“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,
that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to
do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his
own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough
that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell
the story. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no
cause for me to be ashamed of it.

“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a
camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal
Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th Foot. We were in
India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee.
Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company
as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl
that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy
Devoy, the daughter of the colour-sergeant. There were two men
that loved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you
look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say
that it was for my good looks that she loved me.

“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her
marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had
had an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But
the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her
when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a
battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians
and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they
were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the
second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question
whether we could communicate with General Neill’s column, which
was moving up country. It was our only chance, for we could not
hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I
volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My
offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay,
who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man,
and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel
lines. At ten o’clock the same night I started off upon my
journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only
one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.

“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would
screen me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the
corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching
down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with
a blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart
and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I
could understand of their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my
comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to
take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands
of the enemy.

“Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You
know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved
by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their
retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white
face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was
captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state
in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepaul took me
with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeeling. The
hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became
their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans.
There I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to
the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up
a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was
it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make
myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would
not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals
should think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back,
than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.
They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never
should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was
rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me
speak.

“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve
been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of
England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved
enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the
soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so
earn enough to keep me.”

“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I
have already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your
mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home
and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and
her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.
Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and
broke in upon them.”

“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never
seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the
fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face
as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of
me was like a bullet through his guilty heart.”

“And then?”

“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it
it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the
thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be
out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket,
and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up
the curtain. When I got him into his box, from which he had
slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”

“Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in
the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful
reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat,
a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I
saw in an animal’s head.

“It’s a mongoose,” I cried.

“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said
the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing
quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy
catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.

“Any other point, sir?”

“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should
prove to be in serious trouble.”

“In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”

“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against
a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the
satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life his
conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah,
there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-by,
Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday.”

We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the
corner.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this
fuss has come to nothing?”

“What then?”

“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed
conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite
a simple case after all.”

“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come,
Watson, I don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

“There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station.
“If the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what
was this talk about David?”

“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole
story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of
depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”

“Of reproach?”

“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You
remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical
knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story
in the first or second of Samuel.”

IX. The Resident Patient

In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with
which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental
peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been
struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out
examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some _tour-de-force_ of
analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his
peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have
often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel
justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it
has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself
taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced than
I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have
chronicled under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that
other later one connected with the loss of the _Gloria Scott_,
may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are
forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business
of which I am now about to write the part which my friend played
is not sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit
it entirely from this series.