Chapter XI: Part 11

“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram
which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet
you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
down to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
face was crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
sir—not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman——”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
young man is—to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.

SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you
started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,
and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your
employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
will certainly be wasted.

Yours faithfully,
LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
“Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
you to your own devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
telegram for me?”

“Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

“Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:

“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
and hard-working pack.’”

“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s
trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,
for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
specialist in the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride
of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the
doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country
road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
aniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,
would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the
slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a
sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.

“This _détour_ has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said
Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is
worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate
deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right
of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the
corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’s
graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A
footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to
the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a
kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably
melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at
the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles
it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I
followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both
stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes’s
hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes, I am—but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that
we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and
to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his
sudden disappearance when there was a step upon the stairs, and
there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at
the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step
downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the
other upon this miserable affair.”

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than
to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of
the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the
hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank
heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did
all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very
best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me
and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he
could not get out of it without explanations which would expose
his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one
in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not
tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do
no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he
very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was
that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed,
until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is
all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your
discretion and that of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief
into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!
Into your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first
faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly
see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,
blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
pocket, and read aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.
MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace
there.

Yours faithfully,
STANLEY HOPKINS.

“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that
every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a
story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might
have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
bitterness.

“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder.”

“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
confronted us in the open doorway.

“I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
burglars?”

“What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

“Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
will examine the dining-room together.”

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
been in the dining-room yet?”

“I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
all I can.

“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
last she continued:

“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
over so painful a story again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
“As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her
as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and
I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with
them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has
been called in for a case of measles would experience something
of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene
in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange
to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient
weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a
heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and
out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which
it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our
attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by
the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in
front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
wreck which it had wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is
a rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We
have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done
so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and
that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had
recovered from her faint.”

“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would
not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem
to have heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he
seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him
at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,
in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our
way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog
with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make
the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.
Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was
trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will
be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

“When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
rung loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
the house.”

“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull
at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I
have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the
one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would
involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems
devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have
Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his
accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,
if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before
us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are
no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not
expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
been lighted.”

“Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom
candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

“And what did they take?”

“Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate
off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

“No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
understand.”

“To steady their nerves.”

“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
untouched, I suppose?”

“Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
linen and a large corkscrew.

“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

“No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
bottle was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This
bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
possession.”

“Excellent!” said Hopkins.

“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

“Yes; she was clear about that.”

“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have
your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
more profitably at home.”

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he
was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to
the platform and pulled me out after him.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear
carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to
make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every
instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all
wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was
complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three
wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I
should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no
cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down
on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and
allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the
first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything
which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be
true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to
warp our judgment.

“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?”

“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
chair.”

“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

“What about the wineglasses?”

“Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

“I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
as likely?”

“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

“Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
right.”

“What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

“It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete.”

“You have got your men?”