The Return of Sherlock Holmes
“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground
outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no
footmarks.”
“Meaning that you saw none?”
“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”
“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As
long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be
some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which
can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that
this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have
aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were
some objects which you failed to overlook?”
The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.
“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,
that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in
the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon
with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from
a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a
vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea
Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had
been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized
the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime
was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was
fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and
two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are
permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”
“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”
“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
to you to bear upon the case.”
“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”
“What part of the table?”
“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s
tobacco in it.”
“Excellent! What more?”
Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first
page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”
Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,
while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page
were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets
of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa
Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and
figures after it.
“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.
“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought
that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’
may have been his client.”
“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.
Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
with his clenched hand.
“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you
say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have
already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no
one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,
whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is
the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,
that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the
second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I
would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document
relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the
first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”
Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
by this new development.
“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
any of the securities here mentioned?”
“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American
concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse
before we can trace the shares.”
Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.
“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.
“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor.”
“Was the blood-stain above or below?”
“On the side next the boards.”
“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed.”
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
near the door.”
“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”
“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”
“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
a knife, was there not?”
“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
property.”
Holmes was lost in thought for some time.
“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it.”
Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.
“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”
Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.
“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”
Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder.
Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.
The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
surprise upon his face.
“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.
There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.
“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”
“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”
“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”
“You mean that the person will come again?”
“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
not manage it. What would he do?”
“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”
“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”
The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.
“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”
“No, I have moved nothing.”
“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”
It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.
It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it