The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he
was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no
personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he
is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”
“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he
died?”
“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was
a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house
with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course
this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber
must have just burst open the door—the lock has been forced—when
William came upon him.”
“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”
“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from
her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that
she was never very bright. There is one very important
circumstance, however. Look at this!”
He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread
it out upon his knee.
“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It
appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will
observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which
the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might
have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken
this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it
were an appointment.”
Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
reproduced.
scrap of paper
“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector,
“it is of course a conceivable theory that this William
Kirwan—though he had the reputation of being an honest man, may
have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there,
may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may
have fallen out between themselves.”
“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had
been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much
deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his
hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case
had had upon the famous London specialist.
“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the
possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar
and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to
the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible
supposition. But this writing opens up—” He sank his head into
his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest
thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see
that his cheek was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as
before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old
energy.
“I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet
little glance into the details of this case. There is something
in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me,
Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step
round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little
fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour.”
An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.
“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said
he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”
“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir.
Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his
illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much
excited.”
“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually
found that there was method in his madness.”
“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered
the Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had
best go out if you are ready.”
We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk
upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.
“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your
country-trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming
morning.”
“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said
the Colonel.
“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
together.”
“Any success?”
“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I’ll tell you
what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this
unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as
reported.”
“Had you doubted it, then?”
“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not
wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son,
who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had
broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great
interest.”
“Naturally.”
“Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”
“And what is the result of your investigations?”
“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps
our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think
that we are both agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper in
the dead man’s hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his
death written upon it, is of extreme importance.”
“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”
“It _does_ give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who
brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is
the rest of that sheet of paper?”
“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said
the Inspector.
“It was torn out of the dead man’s hand. Why was some one so
anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And
what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely,
never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of
the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious
that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”
“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s pocket before we catch
the criminal?”
“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another
obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it
could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
then? Or did it come through the post?”
“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a
letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was
destroyed by him.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.
“You’ve seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you.
Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will
show you the scene of the crime.”
We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived,
and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne
house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the
door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to
the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the
hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the
kitchen door.
“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on
those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men
struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that
window—the second on the left—and he saw the fellow get away just
to the left of that bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside
the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are
no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men came down the garden
path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly
man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a
dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy
dress were in strange contrast with the business which had
brought us there.
“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners
were never at fault. You don’t seem to be so very quick, after
all.”
“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.
“You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don’t see
that we have any clue at all.”
“There’s only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if
we could only find—Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”
My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful
expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in
agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon
the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the
attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a
large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with
a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.
“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a
severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden
nervous attacks.”
“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.
“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like
to feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival
of this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the
entrance of the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for
granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got
in.”
“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely.
“Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly
have heard any one moving about.”
“Where was he sitting?”
“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”
“Which window is that?”
“The last on the left next my father’s.”
“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling.
“Is it not extraordinary that a burglar—and a burglar who had had
some previous experience—should deliberately break into a house
at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the
family were still afoot?”
“He must have been a cool hand.”
“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not
have been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr.
Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house
before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion.
Wouldn’t we have found the place disarranged, and missed the
things which he had taken?”
“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must
remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very
peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own.
Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from
Acton’s—what was it?—a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I