The case-book of Sherlock Holmes

"He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death in the paper." "And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most singular and ingenious part of all your story?" "I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that pool----" "Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed." "Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed." We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her. "Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it." "What use is it to anyone?" "How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world." The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped forward into the light. "I wonder if you would bear it," she said. It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and together we left the room. Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I opened it. "Prussic acid?" said I. "Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the name of the brave woman who sent it." XI THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph. "It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a look at these scattered objects in the field!" I stooped to the eyepiece and focused for my vision. "Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular grey masses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue." "Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it. Does anything depend upon it?" "It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St. Pancras case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually handles glue." "Is it one of your cases?" "No; my friend, Merivale of the Yard, asked me to look into the case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the microscope." He looked impatiently at his watch. "I had a new client calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of racing?" "I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension." "Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What about Sir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?" "Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton nearly came within your province once." "How was that?" "It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street moneylender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man." "Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?" "Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most daredevil rider in England--second in the Grand National a few years back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation. He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency--a boxer, an athlete, a plunger on the Turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back again." "Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?" "Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there." "And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You need not look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I seem to have struck a rich vein." "There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of them at every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place." "Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!" "Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder." "You mean that she lives with him?" "No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year." "And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?" "That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?" "Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man who can tell us." The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both under his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had waved him. "You had my note, Mr. Holmes?" "Yes, but it explained nothing." "It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it." "Well, we are at your disposal." "First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley Street," said he. "But why do you say so?" "Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned his brain." "That is a colt you are running?" "The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now, I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby. He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance. Everything he could raise or borrow is on the horse--and at fine odds, too! You can get forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back him." "But how is that, if the horse is so good?" "The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins. You can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse and the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till then. If the Prince fails him, he is done." "It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come in?" "Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his conduct to Lady Beatrice!" "Ah! what is that?" "They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes, the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every day at the same hour she would drive down to see them--and, above all, she loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard the wheels on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to get his lump of sugar. But that's all over now." "Why?" "Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week now she has driven past the stables with never so much as 'good morning'!" "You think there has been a quarrel?" "And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the 'Green Dragon,' three miles off, at Crendall." "That certainly did seem strange." "Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good friend to him. But that's all over, too. He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes--drinking like a fish." "Did she drink before this estrangement?" "Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed, Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?" Holmes rubbed his hands. "Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting." "It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He's a terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down all right. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there." "What is this haunted crypt?" "Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it at night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?" "Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stable-men, or someone from the house! Surely you have only to spot who it is and question him?" "It's no one I know." "How can you say that?" "Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us--me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we could hear the other moving about behind. We were not afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the Devil coming out of Hell. He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He could run!--I'll give him that. In a minute he was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found." "But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?" "Yes, I would swear to his yellow face--a mean dog, I should say. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?" Holmes sat for some time lost in thought. "Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last. "There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five years." "And is, no doubt, devoted?"