The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep
that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could
you put me up to-night?”
“With pleasure.”
“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see
that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand
proclaims as much.”
“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”
“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that
you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of
evil. Not the drains, I hope?”
“No, the gas.”
“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper
at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”
I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing
but business of importance would have brought him to me at such
an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.
“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said
he, glancing very keenly across at me.
“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish
in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced
it.”
Holmes chuckled to himself.
“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”
said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is
a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,
although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are
at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”
“Excellent!” I cried.
“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the
reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point
which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my
dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of
yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon
your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem
which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in
the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand
several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever
perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are
needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll
have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his
thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face
had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many
regard him as a machine rather than a man.
“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even
say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into
the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my
solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might
be of considerable service to me.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”
“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”
“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”
“That would give me time.”
“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of
what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”
“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”
“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even
have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder
of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I
am investigating.”
“I have heard nothing of it.”
“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts
are only two days old. Briefly they are these:
“The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea
and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon
every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by
James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,
was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of
the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had
once carried a musket.
“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,
and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the
daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There
was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction
when the young couple (for they were still young) found
themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to
have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I
understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as
her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was
a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been
married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking
and queenly appearance.
“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly
happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures
me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the
pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife
was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if
he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though
devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they
were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged
couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to
prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.
“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits
in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his
usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show
himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This
side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned
towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and
three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,
was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.
As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from
his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining
the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when
the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This
and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits
in his character which his brother officers had observed. The
latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left
alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature
which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and
conjecture.
“The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old
117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The
married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during
all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile
from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the
west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.
A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with
their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for
the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have
resident visitors.
“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the
evening of last Monday.”
“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic
Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment
of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with
the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with
cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that
evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in
order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard
by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,
and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She
then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next
villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted
forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned
home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.
“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This
faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from
the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into
this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were
not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.
Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane
Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was
quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting
in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he
joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the
hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.
“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised
to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious
altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even
turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon
the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and
the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and
listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed
that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of
his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none
of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other
hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be
plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.
‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my
life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her
conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,
with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced
that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door
and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from
within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids
were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A
sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall
door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows
open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was
quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty
into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was
stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted