The Return of Sherlock Holmes
to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly,
as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the
thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle,
Palmer-tired, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly
smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of the bushes
a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay the
unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with
spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of
his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed
in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving
such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of the man.
He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed a
nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.
Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with
great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I
could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not,
in his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.
“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he,
at last. “My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we
have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste
another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the
police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow’s body
is looked after.”
“I could take a note back.”
“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a
fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will
guide the police.”
I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the
frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.
“Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this
morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what
that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched
Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to
realize what we _do_ know, so as to make the most of it, and to
separate the essential from the accidental.”
“First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly
left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he
went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure.”
I assented.
“Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The
boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he
would do. But the German went without his socks. He certainly
acted on very short notice.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the
flight of the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring
him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing
him met his death.”
“So it would seem.”
“Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural
action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after
him. He would know that he could overtake him. But the German
does not do so. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he was an
excellent cyclist. He would not do this, if he did not see that
the boy had some swift means of escape.”
“The other bicycle.”
“Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five
miles from the school—not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad
might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a
vigorous arm. The lad, then, _had_ a companion in his flight. And
the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before an
expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey the ground
round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few
cattle-tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there
is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had
nothing to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human
foot-marks.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”
“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It _is_
impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect
have stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest
any fallacy?”
“He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?”
“In a morass, Watson?”
“I am at my wits’ end.”
“Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we have
plenty of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and,
having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the
patched cover has to offer us.”
We picked up the track and followed it onward for some distance,
but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we
left the watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could
be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop
tire it might equally have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately
towers of which rose some miles to our left, or to a low, grey
village which lay in front of us and marked the position of the
Chesterfield high road.
As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of
a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and
clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had
had one of those violent strains of the ankle which leave a man
helpless. With difficulty he limped up to the door, where a
squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay pipe.
“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.
“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.
“Well, it’s printed on the board above your head. It’s easy to
see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven’t
such a thing as a carriage in your stables?”
“No, I have not.”
“I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”
“Don’t put it to the ground.”
“But I can’t walk.”
“Well, then hop.”
Mr. Reuben Hayes’s manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took
it with admirable good-humour.
“Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward
fix for me. I don’t mind how I get on.”
“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.
“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for
the use of a bicycle.”
The landlord pricked up his ears.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To Holdernesse Hall.”
“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.
Holmes laughed good-naturedly.
“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Because we bring him news of his lost son.”
The landlord gave a very visible start.
“What, you’re on his track?”
“He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every
hour.”
Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His
manner was suddenly genial.
“I’ve less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he,
“for I was head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It
was him that sacked me without a character on the word of a lying
corn-chandler. But I’m glad to hear that the young lord was heard
of in Liverpool, and I’ll help you to take the news to the Hall.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “We’ll have some food first. Then you
can bring round the bicycle.”
“I haven’t got a bicycle.”
Holmes held up a sovereign.
“I tell you, man, that I haven’t got one. I’ll let you have two
horses as far as the Hall.”
“Well, well,” said Holmes, “we’ll talk about it when we’ve had
something to eat.”
When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was
astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was
nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,
so that we spent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in
thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and
stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the
far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the
other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one
of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with a loud exclamation.
“By heaven, Watson, I believe that I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes,
yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks
to-day?”
“Yes, several.”
“Where?”
“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the
path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”
“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the
moor?”
“I don’t remember seeing any.”
“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line,
but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”
“Yes, it is strange.”
“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can you see
those tracks upon the path?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,
Watson,”—he arranged a number of breadcrumbs in this fashion—: :
: : :—“and sometimes like this”—: . : . : . : .—“and occasionally
like this”—.・.・.・. “Can you remember that?”
“No, I cannot.”
“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our
leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to
draw my conclusion.”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and
gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican
that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to be
clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see
what we can see.”
There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down
stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed
aloud.
“Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes, but new nails. This case
deserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”
The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes’s
eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood
which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard
a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows
drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with
passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in his hand, and he
advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right glad to feel
the revolver in my pocket.
“You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”
“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think
that you were afraid of our finding something out.”
The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim
mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than
his frown.
“You’re welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he.
“But look here, mister, I don’t care for folk poking about my
place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get
out of this the better I shall be pleased.”
“All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been
having a look at your horses, but I think I’ll walk, after all.