The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
importance as an historical curiosity.’
“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.
“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the Kings of
England.’
“‘The crown!’
“‘Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run?
“Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution
of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That
was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There
can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem
once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.’
“‘And how came it in the pond?’
“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And
with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise
and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in
and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative
was finished.
“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen
bag.
“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the
Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some
oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining
the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down
from father to son, until at last it came within reach of a man
who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture.’
“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have
the crown down at Hurlstone—though they had some legal bother and
a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it.
I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to
show it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the
probability is that she got away out of England and carried
herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the
seas.”
VII. The Reigate Squires
It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock
Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions
in the spring of ’87. The whole question of the
Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron
Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too
intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting
subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an
indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my
friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh
weapon among the many with which he waged his life-long battle
against crime.
On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April
that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that
Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four
hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there
was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron
constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an
investigation which had extended over two months, during which
period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had
more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days
at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labours could not
save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a
time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was
literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a
prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had
succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and
that he had outmanœuvred at every point the most accomplished
swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his
nervous prostration.
Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it
was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change,
and the thought of a week of spring time in the country was full
of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had
come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a
house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come
down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked
that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to
extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was
needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a
bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom,
he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons
we were under the Colonel’s roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier
who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had
expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.
On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel’s
gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while
Hayter and I looked over his little armoury of fire-arms.
“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I’ll take one of these
pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”
“An alarm!” said I.
“Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is
one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last
Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at
large.”
“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.
“None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little
country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.
Holmes, after this great international affair.”
Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it
had pleased him.
“Was there any feature of interest?”
“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very
little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down,
drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that
an odd volume of Pope’s ‘Homer,’ two plated candlesticks, an
ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine
are all that have vanished.”
“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could
get.”
Holmes grunted from the sofa.
“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he;
“why, it is surely obvious that—”
But I held up a warning finger.
“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t
get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation
towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less
dangerous channels.
It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should
be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us
in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our
country visit took a turn which neither of us could have
anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel’s butler
rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s
sir!”
“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.
“Murder!”
The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then?
The J.P. or his son?”
“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the
heart, sir, and never spoke again.”
“Who shot him, then?”
“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away.
He’d just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him
and met his end in saving his master’s property.”
“What time?”
“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”
“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly
settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,”
he added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about
here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be
cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years
and was a good servant. It’s evidently the same villains who
broke into Acton’s.”
“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes,
thoughtfully.
“Precisely.”
“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the
same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A
gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary
the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the
same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of
taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that
this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief
or thieves would be likely to turn their attention—which shows
that I have still much to learn.”
“I fancy it’s some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In
that case, of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are just the
places he would go for, since they are far the largest about
here.”
“And richest?”
“Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had a lawsuit for some years
which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old
Acton has some claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the lawyers
have been at it with both hands.”
“If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in
running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I
don’t intend to meddle.”
“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the
door.
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the
room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don’t intrude,
but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”
The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector
bowed.
“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr.
Holmes.”
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were
chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps
you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his
chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.
“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to
go on, and there’s no doubt it is the same party in each case.
The man was seen.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed
poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the
bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back
passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr.
Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe
in his dressing-gown. They both heard William the coachman
calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the
matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the
stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them
fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across
the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his
bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of
him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying