The case-book of Sherlock Holmes
have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.
"Then she took one of her husband's revolvers--there was, as you saw,
an arsenal in the house--and kept it for her own use. A similar one
she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging
one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting
attention. She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived
this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid of her weapon. When
Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her
hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible
purpose. Every link is now in its place and the chain is complete.
The papers may ask why the mere was not dragged in the first instance,
but it is easy to be wise after the event, and in any case the expanse
of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear
perception of what you are looking for and where. Well, Watson, we
have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they
in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial
world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that
schoolroom of Sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."
VIII
THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the
singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel
once for all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated the
University and were echoed in the learned societies of London. There
were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of
this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which contains so
many records of my friend's adventures. Now we have at last obtained
permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of the very last
cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice. Even now
a certain reticence and discretion have to be observed in laying the
matter before the public.
It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
received one of Holmes's laconic messages: "Come at once if
convenient--if inconvenient come all the same.--S.H." The relations
between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits,
narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an
institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black
pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was
a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he
could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I
had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked
to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be
made to me--many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to
his bedstead--but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become
in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I
irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that
irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and
impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble
role in our alliance.
When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his arm-chair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious
problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old arm-chair, but
otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my
presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and,
with his usual whimsical smile, he greeted me back to what had once
been my home.
"You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said
he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last
twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some
speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of
writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the
detective."
"But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I.
"Bloodhounds--sleuth-hounds----"
"No, no, Watson; that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But
there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in
the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper
Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a
deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable
father."
"Yes, I remember it well."
"My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the
family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog
in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people
have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing
moods of others."
I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said
I.
He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.
"The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you
understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end
lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's faithful
wolf-hound, Roy, endeavour to bite him?"
I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial
a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes
glanced across at me.
"The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest
issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face
of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher--you've heard of
Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?--that such a man,
whose friend has been his devoted wolf-hound, should now have been
twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?"
"The dog is ill."
"Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor does
he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.
Curious, Watson--very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his
time, if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you
before he came."
There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome
youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his
bearing which suggested the shyness of the student rather than the
self-possession of the man of the world. He shook hands with Holmes,
and then looked with some surprise at me.
"This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the
relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury, both privately and
publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any
third person."
"Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion,
and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to
need an assistant."
"As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter."
"You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,
Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,
lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly
we must agree that the Professor has every claim upon his loyalty and
devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to
clear up this strange mystery."
"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
the situation?"
"I have not had time to explain it."
"Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments."
"I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The Professor, Watson, is a man of European
reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath
of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I
gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say
combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months ago.
"Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of
age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his
colleague in the chair of Comparative Anatomy. It was not, as I
understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man, but rather the
passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a more
devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl both in
mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the Professor's
infatuation. Nonetheless, it did not meet with full approval in his
own family."
"We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.
"Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor
Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of
the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were
already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less
eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.
The girl seemed to like the Professor in spite of his eccentricities.
It was only age which stood in the way.
"About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine
of the Professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He
left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a
fortnight, and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no
allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest of
men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett, received
a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he was glad to
have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not been able to
talk to him. Only in this way did his own household learn where he had
been.
"Now comes the point. From that time onwards a curious change came
over the Professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but
that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities.
His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as
ever. But always there was something new, something sinister and
unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried again and
again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this mask which her
father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I understand, did the
same--but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett, tell in your own
words the incident of the letters."
"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the Professor had no secrets
from me. If I were his son or his younger brother, I could not have
more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled
every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his letters.
Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me that certain
letters might come to him from London which would be marked by a cross
under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his own eyes only. I
may say that several of these did pass through my hands, that they had
the E.C. mark, and were in an illiterate handwriting. If he answered
them at all the answers did not pass through my hands nor into the
letter-basket in which our correspondence was collected."
"And the box," said Holmes.
"Ah, yes, the box. The Professor brought back a little wooden box from
his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour,
for it was one of those quaint carved things which one associates with
Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in
looking for a cannula, I took up the box. To my surprise he was very
angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage for my
curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened and I was